


The Death Eaters

by Everliah



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Peaky Blinders Fusion, F/F, F/M, Horse Racing, I don't know how to tag or what to tag, Inspired By Peaky Blinders, Literally everyone - Freeform, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:23:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19703176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everliah/pseuds/Everliah
Summary: 1919. War has ravaged Britain and Thomas Riddle, unofficial leader of Hogwarts’ reigning gang, The Death Eaters, is left to pick up the pieces of his city. But The Wolves don’t like him rigging their races and a new gang is creeping ever closer to dislodging The Death Eaters from their spot as top dog.Chief Inspector Albus Dumbledore has a special mission for his secretary, Hermione Granger. Infiltrate The Death Eaters. Get close to Thomas Riddle. Take them down from the inside.





	1. Imperio

**Author's Note:**

> AN: So I have so many fics I should be updating and instead I started binging Peaky Blinders and had MAD Tomione inspiration. This has probably already been done but my God, if Thomas Shelby doesn’t give off crazy young Tom Riddle vibes then I don’t know what does- anyway, I don’t know what this is or where it’s going but I was desperate to give it a go since I’ve been wanting to write Tomione (my FAVE ship to read I can’t lie) for ages. This is also inspired by LovelyVillain who writes the best Tomione AUs I have ever had the pleasure of coming across.  
> So, some worldbuilding points: obviously this is only inspired by Peaky Blinders so certain plot points will be similar, but there will still be major differences, depending on which direction I decide to take it. Certain characters will be recognisable, though their roles will be occupied by Harry Potter characters. This is seriously AU and maybe OOC for some. Anyway, please tell me what you think because I really don’t know what this is going to be like!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new rival in town and an old foe on the horizon. Tom Riddle's grip on Hogwarts has never been so shaky..

** Chapter One - Imperio **

The smoke hung heavy and thick on the air, churned up into sky and street alike by the newest factory in Hogwarts. Nurmengard was a beast of a building; a hulking block of grey bricks set against the grey expanse of cloud and smog already being emitted by Malfoy & Sons on the other side of the city. It glowed red in the evening, lit by a thousand lightbulbs, ignited by a million sparks as the assembly lines powered on into the night. During the war, it had popped up quite suddenly, dwarfing what had once been miles of valley in shadow, regurgitating shells and guns and armoured cars for the British war effort. In the few years it had existed, Nurmengard had grown to match and even out-scale the traditional Malfoy & Sons that had been standing for decades, a bicycle firm that had moved with the times. Now, both factories leered and loomed over separate ends of the city of Hogwarts, producing the two best-selling car models in the entirety of the United Kingdom.

The motors were perfectly sound. The chassis of both Malfoy and Nurmen Cars were streamlined and bold, finished with slick black paint and engines that revved like the roar of thunder. Together, the two companies dominated the car industry in what appeared an entirely above board fashion.

The residents of Hogwarts knew that was anything but the case.

They could tell you a few things about who really ran the Malfoy & Sons Motor Company, for example, despite the clear and brazen emblazoning of the Hogwarts Member of Parliament’s name, one Lucius Malfoy, across the front of the factory doors. For it was not Mr Malfoy at all, nor his father for that matter, that wielded the power. If you looked close enough, closer even still- you’d see the skull and snake emblem in the circular caress of the ‘o’ in ‘sons.’ You would know exactly who owned Mr Malfoy and his company.

The Death Eaters were subtle and shameless. They pissed all over the city of Hogwarts as though it was their playground. The smoke hung heavy and thick on the air, but only with The Death Eaters’ permission, only because they had decided that the factory could be built and fed workers, and develop into a hive of activity. Nobody did anything without The Death Eaters’ permission; move in, move out, marry, divorce, create life, end it-

And Thomas Riddle had the overriding say on the lot.

He cut a fine figure through the mist, a black shadow sat astride an equally dark horse. The sound of the mare’s hooves against the cobbled street warned the residents of his passing, and they diverted their eyes once he got close enough to see the whites of them, bowing their heads until he once more disappeared into the fog. His cap was flat, his collars rounded, suit a dark, expensive tweed. The horse wasn’t saddled, but she rode beautifully under him, commanded to submission, dutiful to every twitch of his leg.

The women had always said he was a good looking man, ever since the day he appeared a few years before war broke out, wearing a similar expensive-looking suit and flat cap, a single dark curl against his pale forehead, shoes shining and shirt the colour of untouched snow. He had appeared out of the blue with his unnerving charm and disarming smile, bearing nothing but his name and a fortune that favoured the bold. There wasn’t a man alive that knew who he was or where he came from back then; now, there wasn’t a soul around that hadn’t heard the name Thomas Riddle.

He dug his ankle into the horse’s side when he saw the girl walking towards him. She emerged from the smoke, hair shining like a golden beacon, skin the colour of pale moonlight.

“You’re the fortune teller,” he stated.

His voice was melodious, as sinful as the snake that had tempted Eve. It echoed off the cobbles.

“Aye, that I am, sir,” she replied. She sounded like a fortune teller as well, whimsical and dazed, away with the fairies.

“You know why I’m here then.”

The fortune teller bowed her head, raising her hands high into the air to reveal a small, porcelain bowl filled with lily-white ash. She began mumbling, singing some fairy song he recognised the gypsies as singing for good luck to be bestowed upon them, and from the corner of his eye, Tom noticed the workers on the street edge closer, peer from doors and windows to watch the scene. A small smirk curled his lips.

She continued to sing, growing louder and higher, swaying from side to side, eyes closed, face serene. He watched her and wondered if she truly believed in her magic. Then watched as she stopped her song and blew the powder onto the mare’s face and thought that it made no difference either way, so long as the people were foolish enough to believe it.

The horse reared, and Thomas tangled his fingers in her mane to stop himself from slipping, digging his heels into her ribs so she would calm down. She did so, landing back on the cobbles, huffing, the whiteness of the ash powder stark against her black coat. He tugged her mane and turned her round, not before tossing a coin to the fortune teller.

“Imperio,” he called, walking the horse back the way he came, keeping her pace tempered and disciplined and looking around at the crowd of workers and mothers and dirty children that had assembled. He disappeared into the fog just as he had appeared from nowhere all those years ago, his voice rising above the smoke. “If you want to know which horse to bet on for this week’s race.”

**~O~**

He was late to the meeting, though it hardly mattered and the knowledge did little to speed up his pace. The factory was not the only building still lit this late at night, and Nurmengard towered over the city, visible from its position on the opposite hill. Thomas paused before he entered Malfoy’s, eyes narrowing as he took it in. It had appeared quite out of nowhere, popping up before the businessman had ever even deigned to ask him for permission. But then war broke out and examples to be made were lost in the sudden relocation to France and the urgency of rearmament. He had never forgotten the slight against him, but war had only just ended, and 1919 had proved that the Death Eaters’ biggest job was getting the city under their control again before it could descend into chaos, before the Communists and outsider gangs could scuttle in like rats and infect what Tom had worked so hard to perfect.

The factory was in full swing when he entered, walking down the centre aisle and nodding in acknowledgement to the workers who doffed their caps at his passing. He swung himself up the stairs and entered the main office, taking his time in shutting the door behind him.

“You’re late.”

“I’m aware, Lestrange. But I had business.”

Rodolphus Lestrange was a hulking brute of a man, dark hair, thick beard and black eyes. His shoulders were broad and square, chest expansive, and so tall he had to duck to pass through most doorways. He didn’t look amused, sitting behind his desk, tapping his rough, gold ring-laden fingers against the wood.

“What business?”

“What I discussed with you,” replied Tom, easily leaning against the window overlooking the factory floor.

Lestrange’s face twitched. He closed his eyes for a moment before slamming his fist onto the desk, causing it to splinter. The other men in the room braced their shoulders, one of them flinching outright. Tom raised his eyebrows, lips curling slightly.

“Fuck’s sake, Thomas! We discussed nothing!” He clenched his fist tighter, leaning across the desk, and snarled, “I told you we can’t go making enemies of The Wolves. Not when we have Nurmengard on our doorstep.”

“We’ve already made enemies of The Wolves,” Tom pointed out boredly, never once blinking. “We have to maintain influence over this city, Lestrange. Nurmengard have made their intentions perfectly clear with that big, fuck-off factory of theirs.”

“We don’t know what Nurmengard want,” said Rabastan, Rodolphus’ younger brother. He was just as big and broad as his brother, though clean shaven and more gaunt-looking in the face. He had been a Prisoner of War for two years and still twitched at loud noises.

Tom smiled grimly. “We do. The only way they could be more explicit was if they put Malfoy’s out of business by pissing all over the assembly lines. They want Hogwarts. They want our city.”

“Well, they’re not getting it,” growled Rodolphus.

Tom’s eyes cut to him. “Clearly.”

They stared at one another for a few moments longer, neither one wavering. Eventually, Rodolphus said, “Leave us.” There were a few protests at the meeting being cut short, but he silenced them with a, “Leave me with my lieutenant.”

They loitered still. Tom barely glanced at them, arms still folded across his chest, ankles crossed, shoulder leaning against the glass. “Go on,” he nodded.

Rodolphus waited until the door clicked shut behind the last of the men before he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Tom carefully. Then, he stood, moving around the desk, quietly, even gracefully for such a large man and Tom remembered he had been a sniper during the war. It made sense he would be so silent. Lethal. He was the official head of The Death Eaters after all, the eldest of the Lestrange crime family. 

Rodolphus pushed open the lid of the globe in the corner of the room, revealing an array of fine malt whiskeys and rums. Tom’s eyes followed every move until he gestured for him to take a seat and began pouring them both a drink.

“What’s this business I should know about then?”

Tom reclined in the chair, accepting the glass of whiskey and swirling it in his hand. “I don’t suppose you should know about it if you want to keep on good terms with The Wolves.”

A muscle clenched in Rodolphus’ jaw. Once. Twice. His black eyes narrowed. Finally, he settled on saying, “I give you a lot of liberties as my lieutenant, Thomas, but you shouldn’t push that. You may find I can be short-tempered.”

Tom’s head inclined to one side and he smiled. “You? Never, Lestrange, you must be having me on.”

“Don’t push me, Tom,” he gritted out, holding his finger up in warning, before clenching his fist against the desk. “Who’d have thought the war would have given you a sense of humour.”

Tom smirked behind his glass, knocking it back, before slamming it down and leaning his head back. “We need to get the city back on our side-”

Rodolphus paused in taking a drink, frowning. “I wasn’t aware they weren’t on our side.”

“War changes things,” said Tom. “Makes people forget how things were. How things are. A lot of the men on our side never returned from France, and even the ones that did came back with a pain in their heads.”

Rodolphus licked his lips. “So how do you propose we jog their memories?”

Tom smirked. “I took a racing horse along Ravenclaw Alley this evening to see a fortune teller. She sang a gypsy song, blew some magic powder on the beast, imbued it with good fortune. I made sure to tell the street the horse’s name, just in case they were wanting to bet on the races this week.”

Rodolphus took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. He shook his head, but the savage grin broke out anyway. “You’re playing with fire, Tommy. There ain’t no way The Wolves are gonna let you rig their races.”

Tom’s lips parted and he leaned forward in his chair, arms flat against the armrests. “I already have, Rolph.” He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and leaned back again. “You see, the horse will win this week, when a single street bets on it. And she’ll win next week as well, when a borough bets on her. And by the time we have the entire city of Hogwarts believing she’s a magical mare, blessed by gypsy magic, and thousands betting, that- that is when she will lose.”

Rodolphus inhaled greedily, eyes alight and vicious. He let out a bark of laughter. “You’re scamming the folk. I know you’ve always had trouble making friends but that’s not going to get us onside, Tommy.”

“And then,” Thomas continued, as if he hadn’t just spoken. “And then we return half of the bets to all of our workers, in a show of good faith, because after all, we couldn’t possibly have rigged The Wolves’ horse race, they would have never let us get so close to their business. And next time, they’ll bet more money on the next magic horse, and more still, until we have the whole city resting in the palm of our hands.”

Rodolphus grinned, grasp tightening on his glass in anticipation. “Tommy, you fucking genius.”

He laughed sharply, a boisterous sound that rattled the windows in their frames and made their empty glasses tinkle, before he cut off, grimacing. Leaning across the desk, Rodolphus suddenly looked anxious, eyes darkening and widening. “And what about our other problem?”

Tom scowled slightly, waving his hand in dismissal and looking out at the factory floor.

“I’ve already told you, I’ll deal with Nurmengard.”

Rodolphus frowned. He shook his head and said, “Not them, Tom. Haven’t you heard?”

Tom’s eyes cut to him. “Heard what?”

Rodolphus grimaced and leaned back, resting his arms flat against his chair. Tom repeated the question, entire body laced with tension.

“Lucius Malfoy wrote from London,” he began, retrieving an envelope from his top drawer and passing it to Tom. “Letter came this morning. Our old friend the Chief Inspector is back in town.”

Tom’s eyes scanned the letter, face deceptively blank, before he slammed it down on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”

**~O~**

Hermione skirted around the corner of the police department and made it to her desk just as the clock ticked seven, all but collapsing into her chair, clutching her chest to try and slow her racing heart down. She had set off early enough, but the workers on their way to the two factories had crowded the streets, and she was determined to wait until Lavender returned home to make sure she was safe before she left their house. Her mother had always said she was plagued with being late, that she would be late even to her own wedding and funeral.

Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, Hermione flattened down her hair, smoothing her blouse and skirt, and took the first handwritten file on her desk, flipping it open and glancing through it before she began her typing. She had always believed herself to be more than a typist, despite the dexterity with which her fingers could work a typewriter. Her mother had been a secretary at the factory her father was a board member at, so it wasn’t that she looked down on the job role. It was rare women were allowed many jobs at all, especially of her mother’s class, but the war had made her hungry for more. Hermione longed for the thrill of freedom, for the long-desired taste of independence. Alas, she shared a house with three other girls and they only just managed to make their rent each week, unless Lavender managed to snag a rich client, and there was the undeniable circumstance that she was born the wrong sex.

That was what had her quitting her job at the post office and applying for the secretary position at the Hogwarts Police Department, working under a new Chief Inspector sent in just lately from London. The wage was nearly double that she received at her old work. Admittedly, it had been more of a thrill applying than Hermione had anticipated, including a typing test (which she had expected) and a numerical test which allowed her to stretch her maths abilities, something her father had made sure to nurture when she was younger. Although, the current report she was typing up on a dead horse being hauled from the river Monday morning was more macabre than she had hoped for on her first day.

She had just finished her second report, her fingers aching from the constant typing, the clicking of the buttons close to driving her mad, when the door across from her opened and an older man stepped out into the hallway.

Hermione glanced up at him, then back down at her hands. His hair was auburn, laced with silver threads, and matched a neatly trimmed moustache and beard. He was impossibly tall and slim, dark blue suit fitted, if a little baggy around his torso and a little short on his ankles. Blue eyes watched her.

“Good morning, Miss Granger,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. He smiled. His lips were thin and the smile was really nothing more than the stretching of his face. Regardless, his eyes crinkled and Hermione found herself smiling back.

“Morning, sir.”

“I do not believe we have been formally introduced,” he continued. “I am Chief Inspector Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, but you can call me Dumbledore or Chief Inspector.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chief Inspector,” said Hermione, fingers still suspended over the typewriter.

He watched her for a moment longer before he bowed his head. “I do believe the pleasure is all mine, Miss Granger.” Glancing down the hallway, he smiled once more. “I don’t think a corridor is the best place for us to get acquainted since we shall be working closely together. Would you like to come in for a spot of tea?”

Hermione’s lips parted. She closed her mouth quickly before tidying her desk area, shoving the papers into a pile, and said, “Of course, sir.”

Dumbledore led her into his office and her eyes widened momentarily as she took in the clutter. The far wall was covered in a thick, black curtain, but there was no simplicity anywhere else in the room. A desk was shoved in one corner, covered in documents and files and leather bound notebooks. The other walls were lined with shelves, bookshelves with glass doors and padlocks, with not one empty space, shelves of varying heights lined with plants spilling out of pots and old antiques and strange objects Hermione had never seen before. There was a bird cage holding a golden and scarlet macaw in the corner of the room and the bird watched her as she passed.

She tried not to stare at anything in particular, instead following him over and taking the seat in front of his desk as Dumbledore poured them both some tea.

“Sugar?” he questioned, gesturing the tongs and sugar cubes.

Hermione shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Dumbledore helped himself to several cubes of sugar before he gave her the teacup and took his seat behind his desk. They sat in silence for a few seconds, only the clink of china audible.

“How are you finding your new work?” he asked, setting his tea down.

Hermione nodded quickly. “Very good, sir. It’s a lot more interesting than work at the post office.”

She neglected to mention that she had quite liked Mr Ollivander, and missed his rambling tales and recollections of his youth quite dearly.

Dumbledore smiled at her, and Hermione felt like he could read her mind. He stood and began walking round his desk. His tea remained untouched behind him.

“Miss Granger,” he said finally, stopping in front of her. “What do you know about the Durmstrang Gang?”

Hermione tensed. Her entire body seized up before she could stop herself. She glanced away, breaths shallow and painful, and said instinctively, “Moved from Eastern Europe to Britain some time before the war, sir. Nobody really knows much about their methods or operation. They seem to attack without provocation. They just seem to like wreaking havoc.”

Dumbledore’s eyes remained on her face. She noticed now that the blue was a little bit too blue to be reassuring; it was cold and bright like ice was.

“Do you know why I picked you as my secretary when I was relocated to Hogwarts, Miss Granger?” he asked instead, and Hermione frowned.

“Because I… performed well in the numerical and typing tests? Sir?”

She diverted her gaze at his silence. Shifted in her seat, smoothing down the wrinkles in her skirt, fixing the buttons of her cardigan which she had done in a hurry and were now all done up wrong.

“Your parents were killed by the Durmstrang Gang, is that correct?”

Hermione’s hands froze. She bit at her lip and looked up at him. His voice had dropped softer, gentler, but his face remained impassive and she vaguely wondered if this was worth it. Then, she thought about Lavender on the streets, risking her life each night to put some bread on their table, and how meagre the wage at the post office had become since the war. Hermione thought of money and she pushed past the sound of her mother’s screams still ricocheting in her head.

“Yes, sir.”

“This is not a simple secretary job, Miss Granger,” continued Dumbledore, hands clasped in front of him. He was incredibly calm, composed and unerring. Hermione felt like a tangled bag of nerves in comparison. She twisted her fingers together on her lap and squeezed them until her knuckles had turned white. “You are free to leave at any point, though I ask that you remain quiet on what I am about to inform you on, should you accept the role. Am I being clear?”

Her voice was hoarse. “Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded and he turned on his heel and strode to the wall, where he wrenched the curtain down. Hermione sat up a little straighter in her chair. She felt her heart quicken.

The wall, though it was not so much a wall as a floor-to-ceiling board, was covered in sketches and photographs, written notes and typed reports, all of it connected by green string. Hermione felt herself rising, and before she knew it, she was in front of the board, fingers brushing the string, following it to the three separate branches. In the top left corner was a newspaper cut out of one Fenrir Greyback, so large he took up the whole photograph frame, grin savage and eyes shining even through the ink. He was connected to other names and other people and other events, most notably The Hogsmeade Races, though Hermione’s attention was drawn to a stamp in red ink in the ripped off corner of a piece of paper; a blood-red howling wolf.

“The Wolves,” supplied Dumbledore. She swung round to face him, recoiling her arm as though chastised. He was leaning against the side of his desk, ankles crossed, fingers interlocked, staring at the board with some avid fascination that resembled hunger. “One of the smaller gangs in Hogwarts. They’ve been fixing the horse racing for years now but the police are quite unable to prove it.”

Hermione chewed at her lip, eyes trailing back to the board. The largest section, and by far, the most comprehensive, took over the right side of the board. She had lived in Hogwarts for some time, near enough since the turn of the century, moving from London when she was only a girl after the deaths of her parents. That meant that though she hadn’t been born here, she’d been here long enough to recognise the black skull and snake emblem that signalled The Death Eaters.

The newspaper reports here were frequent, though none of them explicitly mentioned The Death Eaters by name, she noticed; bodies found in rivers, shoved in bins, fires started in the middle of the night, gambling dens, bar brawls. Most likely, The Daily Prophet had been bought off by them, much like the other major businesses in the city. It was no secret how they operated, who their members were, walking the streets of Hogwarts in groups, each member donning a flat cap that glistened silver in the streetlight; Hermione had heard rumours that they had razor blades sewn into their hats, that they preferred a physical, intimate fight any day to a gun showdown. Their strength was their numbers and their brutality and they knew it.

“You’ve no doubt heard of those,” said Dumbledore behind her.

Hermione nodded, fingers trailing the green string that ran from their mark to a photograph of a man with a thick, dark beard, wearing an impeccable black suit. “Rodolphus Lestrange,” she read the inscription underneath. “Is he their leader?”

Dumbledore chuckled and she frowned at him. He shook his head. “Head of the Lestrange crime family. He reckons himself in charge but he’s only really the brawn.” He pushed himself off the desk and came to stand next to her. “The brain of the operation, the rancid heart of it, is this man.”

His finger tapped a picture just above Lestrange’s.

Hermione swallowed. The man photographed was without a shadow of doubt, the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on. Even through the grain of the photograph, there was something elegant about him, something beautiful and something unutterably deadly. He had dark hair, curled against his forehead, and dark eyes, framed by long lashes. His lips were full, curling at the edges into a cross between a smirk and a smile. She couldn’t look away from his eyes. They seemed to be staring back at her, piercing her chest, sussing out her soul.

She diverted her focus to what he was holding and realised with sudden surprise that the photograph was a mugshot, dated back to way before the war. Hermione opened her mouth to ask a question, turning to look at Dumbledore, only to find he was already watching her.

Swallowing, she shook her head and asked carefully, “What was he arrested for?”

“Stealing a loaf of bread.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “That’s absurd,” she said. “He’s a gang leader.”

Dumbledore inhaled deeply. “Indeed.”

“He seems too clever to get nicked stealing a loaf of bread,” she said, before hastily adding, “Sir.”

The Chief Inspector nodded and said, “Oh, he is.” She looked at him. “Put it this way, Miss Granger. Your assessment of Thomas Riddle is quite correct, except for one thing. You should never assume he was anywhere but the place he wanted to be at that precise moment in time.”

She narrowed her eyes, looking back at the mugshot. “He got himself arrested on purpose,” she realised slowly. “But- why would he put himself on the police radar like that?”

“The Death Eaters have never made it their mission to hide. They are not subtle. They want the police and the politicians to know that it is truly they who run the city, not the other way round. No. When Thomas Riddle got himself arrested, he was not putting himself on the police radar, he was putting the police on his.”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

Dumbledore’s eyes never wavered from the picture. “By spending just one night in police custody, Tom Riddle had every police officer in that station sussed. He knew just who to grease to get them onside and the ones who would bend to a few extra coins each week and the ones that would never bend at all.”

She felt something cold trickle down her chest, pooling into her stomach. “You’re telling me the police department is in kahoots with The Death Eaters?”

The Chief Inspector looked down at her. “There is a reason the government sent me from London, Miss Granger. There are a few reasons, in fact, but yes, that is one of them. This is why it is imperative that you do not reveal to another soul the true nature of your job. You never know where Tom Riddle has his eyes and ears.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, glancing at his photograph one last time. He was still hauntingly beautiful, there was no denying that, but she found his beauty struck her in the way the scales of the most venomous snakes were also the brightest. His beauty was a warning.

“And what is the true nature of my job, sir?”

Instinctively, her eyes fell on the empty space of the board, in the bottom left corner. The thread was red here- _uncertainty?-_ connecting only a few loose newspaper clippings that derived from newspapers all over Britain and Europe. Hermione recognised French, German, and what she thought might be Russian. There were fewer photographs here, and the ones that were pinned had question marks besides them or crosses through. She was drawn to the mark, the symbol, the one that was painted over the smouldering factory doors of her parents’ place of work; a triangle, a circle within it, and a line dissecting the two. She didn’t know what it was but she knew what it meant. The Durmstrang Gang. 

“Hogwarts is rife with gangs, Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore gravely. “It is infected. The police department is inept. The only way to take them down is from the inside.”

Hermione knew what he was going to say before he said it and her stomach coiled with anticipation, fear, regret, excitement. She forced herself to take a deep breath and keep her face blank. His eyes watched her closely.

“I need you to infiltrate The Death Eaters, and get close to Thomas Riddle.”

**~O~**

The Knights of Walpurgis was busy tonight, teeming with the day-shift workers from the factory, still freshly grimed with soot and oil. Abraxas wiped his rag along the bar, before slinging it over his shoulder and taking the order of the next patron that had managed to barge his way to the front of the crowd. He craned his neck to look over at the doorway but the man of the night, of every night, in fact, was late. Again.

Someone hollered his name from the other end of the bar, banging their empty glass down repeatedly. Abraxas dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead. “Fuck, I gotta get myself a barmaid.”

The hour was late, but the pub showed no signs of emptying or slowing down but time still seemed to stop when the door opened suddenly, clanging against the wall, scraping along the floor. The patrons closer to the entrance cheered and grinned, toasting their drinks high and doffing their hats, for those who still wore them. Tom smiled, nodding his acknowledgments, slapping a man on the back who greeted him, shaking hands with another, weaving his way through the crowd until he made it to the bar.

Abraxas had spotted him the moment he’d arrived, waiting for him in the corner of the bar.

“Do you want me to clear out?” he asked, leaning across the counter, tipping his head towards the rowdy room.

Tom rapped his knuckles once, eyes scanning the crowd. “No. There’s no intimacy in an empty pub.” His eyes cut back to Abraxas and he jerked his head to the front saloon room, reserved for The Death Eaters. “Do you have anyone to cover the bar?”

Abraxas nodded, whistling at a young man in the back corner of the pub. He clasped his shoulder, and said, “Watch the bar for me, will you, Reggie?”

Regulus glanced at Tom, ducking his head in a jerky nod, before trading places with Abraxas, wrapping the apron round his waist.

“Saloon room is free,” said Abraxas. Tom nodded once, leading the way then stepping back to let Abraxas in before him, so he could turn and pause in the doorway to look back out over the pub, eyes perusing his people, running his tongue along the front of his teeth and smiling.

The doors to the front room clicked shut and the two men took their seats across from one another. Tom reclined back, leaning his head against the wall, watching as Abraxas poured them both a glass of rum.

“Who’s the lad?” asked Tom, taking out a cigarette and placing it between his teeth. “Looks like a Black.”

Abraxas huffed a laugh. “Perceptive. He is. Bella and Rolph’s cousin. Only a young lad. His mum asked me if I’d take him on part-time just to give him something to do. Came back from the war changed.”

Tom paused in lighting up, eyes flicking to his friend. “We all came back changed.”

Abraxas pressed his lips together but kept quiet, letting Tom take a long drag before he spoke again.

“I hear you jinxed a horse last night,” said Abraxas, taking a sip of his drink, lips quirking behind the rim of his glass.

Tom shrugged, stretching one arm along the top of the leather seats. The golden ring on his thumb glinted, set deep with a cracked black stone. He tapped his fingers.

“Jinx, bless, call it what you will,” he said. “Point is, the street knows her name now.”

“How’d Rolph take your proposition then?”

Tom smirked. “I never gave him one.”

The rum sloshed over the rim of his glass, spilling down his chin. Abraxas leapt forward to stop it from staining his shirt. Tom whipped his handkerchief out of his suit pocket and slung it at his friend.

“You’re telling me you just rigged the race anyway?” demanded Abraxas, dabbing at his face.

Tom smiled, amused. “I’ve had the race rigged since the end of the last one. Don’t presume I’m getting lax, Brax”

Abraxas let out a long whistle. He scratched at his neck. “You like playing with fire, Tommy.”

Tom laughed, and the smoke billowed from his mouth. “The Wolves aren’t fire. They’re all bark and no bite.”

“I don’t know,” said Abraxas. “I’ve heard stories about Greyback. Stories that’ll make even your blood turn. He was the only surviving soldier in his battalion, you know. Rumours are he survived because he ate the bodies of his men.”

Tom scoffed, blowing his smoke to the side, stretching his other arm out, the cigarette balanced between his nimble fingers. “You always liked listening to rumours, Brax. You’re like an old housewife. Greyback might be vicious but he’s not an animal. He’s just a man. They all are.”

Abraxas watched him for a few seconds longer, before nodding and glancing away. “If you say so, Tommy. What about Nurmengard? Have you figured out what’s going on behind factory doors?”

Tom leaned forward to put his cigarette out, swapping it for his glass. He swirled his drink, watching the dark liquid whirlpool. His lips tightened. “It’s Durmstrang,” he said and let out a deep breath. Abraxas shifted across from him and he met his gaze. “The Great War may have postponed my interest in them but that war is over. The current war is between us and them and they know it. That’s why they’re biding their time.”

“War’s been over a year,” said Brax. “What’re they waiting for?”

Tom licked his lips. “I don’t know. I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

“How did you know it was definitely them?”

His face twisted and he knocked back the rest of his drink, nose wrinkling, jaw tensing.

“I’ve had my suspicions for a while,” he admitted. “And then I found out an old friend of ours is back in town and Chief Inspector Dumbledore confirmed them for me.”

Abraxas sat up. “Dumbledore’s back in Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, found out last night. Your cousin Lucius sent a letter from London.”

“Fuck me. Lucy's finally coming in handy,” said Abraxas, leaning back and closing his eyes briefly. An impish grin lit up his face. “You get back from the war and think you’re safe from the enemy only to find that the enemy is waiting on your doorstep and he’s multiplied!”

“We’re firing on all cylinders again, Brax,” said Tom, grinning. His holster was snug over his shoulders, gun heavy and cold in his waistband. He swore he could feel the ghost of the razor blades in the seam of his cap. The rum and tobacco tasted like home, the din of the pub from behind the saloon doors and the sound of Abraxas’ triumphant laugh made things feel like they had done before the war. Tom felt like things were looking up again, like he was finally in control. He took another cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and closed his eyes.

**~O~**

The moonlight pooled onto the pub floor, exploding outwards, escaping under the vacant tables where the chairs had been placed upside down. The patrons had cleared out under an hour ago, and Abraxas had been left to mop up the sticky floors and puddles of booze and spots of blood. The bar was still lined with empty glasses that needed washing.

Suddenly, the door swung open, scraping along the floor. Abraxas sighed, throwing his towel over his shoulder and coming around the front of the bar. “We’re closed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

His head shot up, eyes widening.

The girl in the doorway was small, even in her smart brown heels. The skirt fell to her calves and her cream cardigan was buttoned all the way up her chest. She had chestnut coloured curls that fell around her shoulders, sparking and frizzing like electricity, or the mane of a lion. Though not conventionally pretty, there was something undeniably appealing about her, from the dusting of freckles across her cheeks and the cupid bow of her lips. Her dark eyes were large and doe-like, blinking nervously at him.

She held something in her hand higher for him to see and said, “I came for the barmaid job.”

Stepping further into the pub, the light fell on her face and she smiled slightly. “My name is Hermione. Hermione Granger.”


	2. The Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Tom met Hermione.

** Chapter Two- The Hand **

The sky was stained with twilight when Hermione returned home. She turned onto her street, heels clicking against the cobbles, careful not to trip. Her head was ducked low, hat covering her eyes. It was as though the world itself was different now, somehow more muted, every line thrown into garish distinction. Hermione couldn’t help but see the depth of the shadows, the almost sinister way the houses stood side by side, tilting, leering, faces hiding only God knew what sordid secrets. She had to squint at the sudden clarity of it all.

She walked a little quicker despite herself, not slowing down until she was ensconced within her house. “Hello? It’s me. Is anyone in?”

Hermione glanced into the front room, fumbling in her pocket for her key. She shouldered her bag higher and shut the door behind her, pressing her key into the lock and turning until she heard the click. Lately, she’d found herself obsessively checking the door, urging (to no avail) that Lavender take her key with her in her purse when she had business instead of leaving it under the doormat as she was prone to do. Lav had laughed at her, tapping her nose and telling her she was overthinking again, warning her that worry made your hair fall out.

Hermione had only laughed nervously, because how could she possibly tell her friend that she had looked into the ink black eyes of the devil himself? Death was on their doorstep and they had never comprehended just how prolific or close He was.

“In here!”

She kicked her shoes off at the bottom of the stairs and hung up her coat and bag, before heading to the back of the house. Parvati sat at the small table in the kitchen, patching up her dress. Padma, her twin, gifted with the same bronze skin, willowy figure and long, sleek black hair, sat at the other end of the table, sipping her tea. She must have just returned from work, for her face was still painted with bright, pretty colours and her fortune teller’s headscarf sat limp by her hand.

“How’s the new job?” she asked, smiling up at her.

Hermione paused, only to take a breath, but Parvati stopped what she was doing, her head shooting up, eyes narrowed; her eyeliner made her look catlike.

“That bad?” Her face softened when she caught sight of Hermione biting her lip. She sighed. “I know we’re low on the dough but you didn’t have to quit your job at the post office. I know you enjoyed working with old man Ollivander.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, moving over to the counter to put the kettle on. She rubbed at her head, tucking a curl behind her ear, and stole herself for just a moment before she turned and leaned against the worktop. “It wasn’t bad,” she said. “I’m a very quick typist.”

Parvati snorted, putting down her sewing and swivelling in her chair to fix her with a shrewd look. “Granger, you’ll be efficient in whatever job you do. But do you enjoy it?”

“It’s a lot more varied than the post office,” said Hermione weakly.

“Did you see Harry an’ Ron much?” asked Padma. “They work at the department, don’t they?”

Hermione nodded, twirling her spoon. It clattered against the side of the teacup. “They’re more field officers though. Patrolling the street. I’m more- paperwork. Anyway, I’ve got a trial as a barmaid later this evening. In case it doesn’t work out.”

Parvati laughed. “Already got a back-up in place, Granger?”

She shrugged, leaving her spoon in the sink, taking a sip. It burnt her lips but she forced herself to drink. “I’m just not sure today.” Hermione glanced at the clock. “Where’s Lavender?”

“Working.”

Hermione met Padma’s gaze, and the other girl looked away first, pursing her lips before she sipped her tea.

“Where?”

Parvati rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, Hermione. I din’t ask her to draw me a fecking map.”

Hermione put her tea down and moved to kneel beside her friend’s chair, placing a hand on her knee. “I worry about her,” she stressed, eyes wide and insistent, flicking between Parvati’s. “This city isn’t safe. All it takes is one bad man and-”

“I know!” Parvati closed her eyes, squeezing Hermione’s fingers. She continued softly, “I know what happens. I’ve seen it. I’ve grown up here, Hermione. I know what happens.”

“Speaking of bad men,” said Padma suddenly, looking at the two of them with a little frown furrowing her eyebrows. “I was working with Luna today. She had a visitor last night. Asking for some gypsy magic.”

Hermione frowned. “What? What visitor?”

Padma put her cup down none too gently in her haste, skirting her chair closer. She beckoned for them to lean in. “A Death Eater,” she whispered. Her eyes were bright. “But not just any Death Eater. The leader. Thomas Riddle.”

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, hands slipping from Parvati’s. She clenched her fists together to try and ground herself, chewing on her bottom lip.

“I thought Rodolphus Lestrange was the leader?” said Parvati, glancing between them.

Hermione shook her head and said instinctively, “No, that’s just what he wants you to think.”

Parvati rolled her eyes and ruffled her hair. “One day working with the police an’ she thinks she’s an expert on gangs. I know you’re a quick learner but nobody learns that quick.”

Hermione tapped her fingers against her leg, standing suddenly and moving to turn the tap on so she could start washing up. She swallowed and tried to keep her voice neutral when she asked, “You said you grew up here. What’s the big deal about Thomas Riddle then?”

She could feel Padma’s eyes on the back of her neck, but ignored her. Parvati picked up her sewing. “Came outta nowhere a few years ‘fore the war broke out, got himself in with the Lestrange family an’ the Malfoy’s. Some say he’s gypsy. Others say he comes from good stock down South, that his dad was a gentleman.”

“I heard he’s an Oxford man,” added Padma.

The bowl slid from Hermione’s hands, back into the soapy water. “Oxford University?”

“Apparently.” Padma shrugged. “Nobody really knows who he is. Just that he runs Hogwarts.”

“But how? How does he run it?”

“Christ alive, girl,” exclaimed Parvati, throwing her arms in the air. “Are you plotting to take the gang down or something? Why do you care?”

Hermione dried her hands on the towel, shrugging slightly. “I’m just curious.”

Parvati pressed her lips into a line and said, “Curiosity’ll get you killed.”

“It brought the cat back.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Protection money, mainly,” said Padma quietly. Hermione looked at her. Padma traced the patterns on the tablecloth, her finger following the fading flowers and leaves, ignoring Parvati’s glare. “They get cuts from every business too. If they wanna keep running, they pay The Death Eaters. Then of course it’s whatever they make in that factory of theirs. Most people reckon it’s alcohol, that they’re exporting to America an’ getting paid double ‘cause of prohibition. Others say it’s opium. Whatever it is, it’s illegal.”

Hermione glanced between the two sisters. Gangs and organised crime was rife in London, but it didn’t seem to be part of the ecosystem; it wasn’t so ingrained into the hierarchy of the city like it was in Hogwarts. It wasn’t lauded as highly as the monarchy; leaders weren’t immortalised as kings. She shook her head. “Why do people let them get away with it?”

“They’re bad men, Hermione,” said Parvati heavily. “Nobody’s denying that. But they’re our bad man, you hear? They might kill an’ scam an’ fight like we’re still at war but they also give us jobs an’ keep us safe.”

She sighed, pushing her tattered dress away from her and dropping her needles.

“Truth is, world hasn’t been right since the war. There are a lot of bad men about, a lot of monsters wearing suits that you don’t know who you can trust-“

“What about the police?” asked Hermione, but she knew it was a poor effort.

Parvati scoffed, throwing her hair back. “No offence to your colleagues, Mione, but the pigs can’t do shit. Not against machine guns. Half of ‘em are paid off anyway. You don’t know who to trust. No. You can only fight fire with fire. That’s why we put up with Thomas Riddle. He’s a bad man, but he’s our man. He’s for us.”

**~O~**

Tom jerked awake.

Sweat laced his hair, trickled cold down the back of his neck. He felt hot all over, burning, as though he was drowning in it and he kicked his sheets off, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed. Burying his face in his hands, every breath was magnified and echoing. His chest heaved. Tom struggled to regain control, clenching his fists tightly, digging his nails into the palm of his hands until he drew blood.

It was always the same dream.

Memory, really- the gasping terror an easy memory to recollect from his time in the war, sometimes intentional, though more often than not, laborious, forced upon him when he was least suspecting an assault. It always had the same feeling of being buried alive, the four walls of hell, soil raining, explosions distant and within his chest, Abraxas just ahead with a terribly timed joke, picking at the blood drenched dirt, the light from the lamp swaying and casting garish shapes against the walls-

It always had the face of death.

He let out a shaking breath before sitting upright, hands braced on his thighs, chest rising high. Tom’s eyes flicked around the room, breathing deeply, counting the seconds he held each one in his breast. The room was dark, swathed in shadows, only a small pool of moonlight spilling through the slit in the lace curtains. His attention snagged on the table by his bedside, covered in a thin blanket of white powder; the porcelain jar was on its side, and Tom sighed and started scraping as much of the drug back into it as he could.

Hauling himself to his feet, Tom smoothed his hair down, running his fingers through it before he straightened his shirt, rumpled from his impromptu sleep. He left his bedroom, descending the stairs and heading for the dining room, where he peeled back the corner of a loose strip of wallpaper. Tom pressed the release button and pushed, the wall opening up like a door.

The room revealed beyond was a long, cold thing, walls bare and cracked, raining dust as a car crept along the street outside. Tom flicked the light switch, wincing as the static buzzed and the overhead lighting flickered into life. He dipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket, slipping a cigarette out of the box and between his teeth, hand dropping to skim over the paper on the table as he moved past it to the back of the room, eyes scanning headlines and numbers.

His office was still dark when he entered it, and freezing, a chill seeping through the bricks from outside. Tom poured himself some whiskey, ignoring the way his hand shook and the whiskey sloshed on the silver tray. He took his glass, holding his unlit cigarette between his fingers, and had just taken a drink when his eyes landed on it.

His desk was empty, with the exception of a single envelope, with _Thomas Riddle_ written on in a violent scrawl.

He paused, staring at it for a moment, before lowering his glass to the desk, sticking his cigarette back between his teeth and reaching for it.

Glancing around, Tom looked for anything else that might be out of place, but every door was closed, every shadow evaded human form. Behind him, however, the window was shattered, glass spikes protruding inwards, scattered across the floor. He didn’t know how he hadn’t spotted it before but the cold now made sense.

Tom played with the cigarette with his tongue, pushing it from one side of his mouth to the other. He grabbed his letter opener, sliding it along the seam of the envelope, pulling the letter out and flipping it open.

His eyes ran over the page. His lips twitched.

“Break my fucking window and now you want to parlay,” murmured Thomas. He hummed.

Shoving his bookcase in front of his broken window, Tom lit his cigarette, slipping the letter inside his waistcoat, before he left.

**~O~**

The door slammed shut behind him, and Tom pulled his coat off, throwing it over the bar when he got close enough to sit on the stool, knocking on it and calling, “Brax!”

Sure enough, his friend appeared from the back room, blond hair tied back in a ponytail, towel slung over his shoulder. “I thought you were meant to be coming round earlier.”

Tom dragged a hand over his face, before shaking his head slightly and straightening his hat. “I fell asleep.”

Abraxas came to stand opposite him, across the bar. He stared at him for a moment. He could no doubt see the way his pupils were blown wide, his jaw clenching every few seconds. Tom refused to look away first.

His lips began to curl and he reached inside to pull the letter from his waistcoat, saying, “I had a little unwanted visitor whilst I was out-”

But before he had chance to pull the letter all of the way out and hand it to Abraxas, a woman emerged from the back room, frowning and looking behind her.

“Mr Malfoy, I think the log is incorrect,” she began. “There’s not nearly as many bottles of whiskey as recorded- oh.”

She stopped when she noticed Tom, eyes widening, lips pressing shut. She was a pretty thing, he supposed, eyes dragging the length of her body, small, tiny really, even in her sensible heels. Her hair was something of a beast, wild and breaking free of the braid she’d no doubt had to wrestle it into, curls loose about her face. Her eyes were wide, like some sort of startled animal, and whiskey brown.

Tom raised his eyebrows, eyes sliding between the two, and drawled, “And who’s this?” 

Abraxas slung the towel over his shoulder and glanced at Hermione. “My new barmaid. On a trial run. I’ve been telling you for weeks I need a hand running The Knights. Meet the hand.”

**~O~**

Tom stared at her, and Hermione told herself to look away, to look at the bar or the inventory list in her hands or the wooden beams holding the ceiling up, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from his eyes. They were just as black as the ink of the mugshot, pinned to the board in the Inspector’s office. A small part of her vaguely wondered if he could see the truth in her own eyes, if the past twenty four hours were playing on a loop and the leader of the most powerful gang in Hogwarts could see the way she intended to betray him.

She bit her lip without realising and his eyes flicked to follow the action. He pushed off the stool and stalked towards her, stopping on the other side of the bar. Slowly, one of his hands reached out; his thumb pressed against her chin until she realised her lip.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” murmured Tom. His voice was low, intimate in the air between them. His breath was warm and fresh against her face, smelling like smoke and something foreign. “Might scar.”

“I’m already scarred, sir,” said Hermione. She inhaled sharply, the words leaving her mouth unbidden, as though he had slipped her something, as though he truly were the Devil. She wanted to grapple for them, to take them back, but they were out in the open. Instinctively, her fingers traced the sleeve of her left forearm.

His eyes seemed to darken, thumb pressing a little more insistently against her chin, brushing her lower lip, before he dropped his hand and took a few steps backwards, smoothing his hair into place.

“On trial, huh?” asked Thomas. His eyes never once left her. “How much to make you stay?”

“Sir-” she began, squeezing the clipboard in her hand, finally glancing away.

“Thomas Riddle,” he said. His lips quirked in a little, half smile. “And you are?”

Hermione stared at him. “Mr Riddle,” she began again.

“I asked your name, darling.”

She stopped. “Hermione Granger,” she said.

Tom licked his lips. “Excellent. I’ll pay you eight pounds and four shillings a month if you stay. Will that suffice?”

Hermione couldn’t stop her eyes from widening. That was nearly double her monthly wage at the post office, and more still than the secretary role had originally been advertised for.

“Hermione?”

Silently, she nodded. Thomas smirked, straightening his cap. “Now why don’t you earn it and pour me a whiskey.”

“Any particular preference, Mr Riddle?” Hermione asked, turning her back on him to look at the wall of alcohol.

“I trust your judgement, Miss Granger,” was his reply. He sat down on a stool at the bar. “Pour yourself a glass whilst you’re at it.”

“Don’t teach her to drink on the job, Tommy,” said Abraxas from the other end of the bar. “Bad habits die hard.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever spent a day working at The Knights and returned home sober, Brax,” said Tom, grinning. He took off his hat, laying it on the bar.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to it and back to pouring the whiskey, her heart pounding furiously. It could have been a trick of the light, but she swore the seam of his cap glinted with metal.

“Would you like a drink, in that case, Mr Malfoy?” she asked instead.

Abraxas looked between the two, then dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t but I will. Call it part of the trial.”

He took a seat beside Tom.

“I thought I was hired?”

Abraxas waved his hand, pulling a face. “Technicalities. You are. Tommy is a hard man to please. I’m not about to shoot a gift horse in the mouth when she happens to pass through my establishment.”

There was something unnervingly graphic about the expression, and Hermione set the whiskey bottle down, pushing the men their glasses.

“My friend is a fortune teller down Ravenclaw Alley,” said Hermione carefully, drawing her finger around the rim of her glass. “She said you had a horse blessed, Mr Riddle. With gypsy magic.”

“Call me Tom,” he said, black eyes watching her as he took a swig of whiskey. “What of it?”

Hermione swallowed, holding his gaze. “You just don’t strike me as one to believe in gypsy magic, Tom.”

He cocked his head, smiling slightly. “My mother was a gypsy.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean it as an insult,” she replied, watching him. “You’re not the kind of man I would expect to believe in God either.”

“A lot of men believed in God in the war,” said Thomas, suddenly serious. “A lot of those men are dead now.”

Hermione couldn’t look away. She shook her head. “I don’t believe in God either,” she said quietly. “War, famine, murder – what God could exist while such things exist too?”

Tom’s voice dropped to a murmur. It was almost seductive, like he was testing her, seducing her to share her deepest, darkest secrets. Hermione thought if she’d drunk her whiskey, she just might have. “What do you believe, then, Miss Granger?”

“I believe that man should become his own God,” said Hermione. “He should decide how he lives and dies, what he decides to do with his one short life.”

Whatever smile had been playing at Tom’s lips dropped, his eyes growing darker as the light shifted outside.

“I agree only partly, Miss Granger,” said Thomas, taking a long drink and dropping his empty glass on the table. She moved to fill it up but his hand stopped her. “Some men are Gods, you’re right about that, but not all. Some men can’t take the pressure, can’t handle the power that comes with ruling their own life. That’s why this city needs men like me.” His fingers wrapped around her wrist, rough and calloused, the same fingers that had pulled countless triggers and shot countless bullets that had killed countless men. They were cold against her skin, slick with condensation from his glass. She could feel the power in his palm. “Some men need to be told how to live, how to breathe, how to fuck, how to eat, how to die, or the hierarchy will come crumbling down and there’ll be anarchy. Never mind Communism. It’ll be war in the streets.”

Hermione stared at him. “Something tells me men like you want war in the streets.”

Tom’s lips curled slowly. He looked like the rapture, eyes alight with something dark and dangerous. He leaned forward, grip tightening on her wrist, and said, “Something tells me you don’t know any men like me.” 

She felt her heart shake every one of her ribs, rattle in her chest, threaten to burst free and run away, run back to London, back to the ghosts of her parents, back to a time she felt safe and loved. Goosebumps erupted along her arms, a chill stealing through the tavern. He reminded her of the hypnotist she had once stumbled across in Covent Garden, staring into her soul, telling her everything she had ever hungered for. Hermione felt like he’d lit her on fire. His smile never once wavered.

Abraxas glanced up at the clock on the wall, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “Trial’s over, Hermione. I’ll finish up here.”

He released her wrist. Hermione tore her eyes away from Riddle, trying to still her trembling hands, scooping up the empty glasses and placing them by the sink behind her. She undid her pinny apron, laying it on the bar, and collected her bag and coat from the stand by the door.

“Thank you, Mr Malfoy,” she said quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bright and early!”

Hermione nodded, shooting him a brief smile. She didn’t mind Malfoy; he was surprisingly friendly, with dark blue eyes her mother could only have described as warm. She placed her bag by her toes and swung her coat around, missing her arm completely. Her entire body flushed, heat creeping along her arms and neck, staining her cheeks.

Suddenly, her coat was being lifted. Her arms dropped limp by her side.

“Here,” Tom murmured, and she felt the word reverberate through his chest against her back. “Allow me.”

He was warm, solid, remarkably human. He smelled of mint and spice, the whiskey hot on his breath, with a slight wave of gasoline. Hermione breathed him in, and if the way his breath fanned her neck was any indication, he had noticed.

Tom took her coat from her, remaining close, and held out the sleeves, allowing her to slip her arms in. Hermione turned around and buttoned it up. She made a move to collect her bag, but he beat her to it, crouching in front of her, breath tickling her knees, even through her stockings. His eyes flicked up to her and snagged. His eyelashes were thick, beautiful. He blinked. Hermione swallowed.

Then, Tom stood suddenly and they were facing one another.

“Well, thank you, Mr Riddle, Mr Malfoy,” she said, stepping back. She couldn’t be sure her voice didn’t shake. She offered them a final smile. “I look forward to working with you.”

Hermione ducked her head in a nod, eyes flicking to Abraxas before returning to Tom. She turned on her heel and had pushed the door open when his voice stopped her.

“Just one last thing, Miss Granger,”

She paused in the doorway and turned back to look at him. He hadn’t moved an inch. He faced her, neck craned back, eyes hooded, one hand tucked into his pocket. The shadows clung to him, drawing devilish shapes on the floor behind him. Hermione thought vaguely that he looked like the portrait of a fallen angel, beautiful but haunting, damned and thriving.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“Why come work for a gang when you’re so clearly repulsed by them?”

In the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Abraxas tense but he stayed out of the way and kept quiet. Tom smiled lazily. “Police not paying you enough to do their paperwork?”

She reminded herself to keep breathing, even as her heart felt to pound in every one of her fingertips, blood rushing to her head. Hermione raised an eyebrow but before she could think of anything to say, he’d already carried on.

“I told you, Miss Granger. Some men are Gods. Omnipotent. All-seeing, all-knowing.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly why,” she replied and this time, she was proud that her voice didn’t waver at all. “I never had such philosophical debates at the post office. Good night, Mr Riddle.”

**~O~**

Tom stared at the door, long after it had closed and her silhouette had been put out like a light.

“So you like her? She’s approved?”

He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and nodded once, tearing his eyes away from the glow of the porch light and moving round the side of the bar to help himself to another drink. “She’ll do.”

He could feel Abraxas watching him. “Should I be concerned?”

Tom turned to face him, knocking back his whiskey. He smiled lazily. “About what? I like something pretty to look at sometimes, is all.”

“I’ll try not to be offended.” He fell quiet. “How’d you know she worked for the police?”

Tom shook his head. “She doesn’t. Not anymore. She was shortlisted to two girls for a secretarial role and lost out,” he said, then his eyes cut to Abraxas. “There’s very little that goes on in this city that I don’t know about.”

Brax’s eyebrows quirked. “’Cept Nurmengard.”

Tom clenched his jaw, hand tightening on his glass. “I said I’m dealing with Nurmengard.”

Abraxas nodded, glancing at him before looking away. He frowned and asked, “You were going to show me something?”

Tom raised a finger, tapping the bar for a refill and Abraxas rolled his eyes but obliged nevertheless, filling his glass to the very top until the whiskey threatened to spill over the rim. Tom glared before knocking it back, taking no notice of the way it dripped down his hand.

He put his glass down and retrieved the letter, holding it out of Abraxas’ reach when he went to grab it. “Fucker broke my window to leave this on my desk.”

“Who?”

Tom finally handed him the letter, finishing his drink as he watched Abraxas’ eyebrows pull into a frown before shooting up his forehead. He looked at Tom for a very long time, spreading the letter open on the bar between them.

The message was short, scribbled into the paper so ferociously so as to tear it. It was just a date, a time and a place. Unsigned. Punctuated with a stamp of a blood-red wolf, howling.

**~O~**

Harry smelled it before he saw it. The docks were prone to a lingering stench, but the smell of fish guts and oil spillages did not spell like this, like copper and rot, like death. He spotted Ron a mile away, heading over to him before he could stomach crossing the police line and expanding his view of the crime scene beyond the slowly developing pool of blood he could see from here. He raised his eyebrows at his friend when Ron caught sight of him and came towards him, grabbing his arm and pulling him away. Harry asked what had happened.

“It’s carnage,” said Ron, wiping his brow. His face was almost as red as his hair, covered in a slick sheen of sweat. He glanced behind him then back at Harry. “Moody doesn’t recognise them. Thinks they must be some lower levels that got caught in a pissing battle.”

“Still,” said Harry, scratching his head, pushing his glasses further up his nose despite the fact they hadn’t fallen an inch. “Doesn’t matter how high up they are in the gang. It’s still two dead bodies on our doorstep and a fuck ton of blood from God knows where.”

“Oh we know where,” said Ron, grimacing. “One shot a fair few times, the other pummelled to death. Could be an instrument but there’s something violent about it. Moody reckons the guy used his bare hands.”

Harry tried to stem the wave of nausea he felt at that statement, nodding once and staring at the man in question by the water. He clasped Ron’s arm and said, “I’m going to speak to Moody.”

He edged past him, ducking under the police tape, making sure to keep his eyes ahead.

Chief Constable Moody stood overlooking the canal, puffing on a cigarette. He’d lost a leg in the war, so the stories went, and he leaned heavily on a silver walking stick with a curved hound’s head. He was grisly and hardened, a veteran in the police and had been responsible for single-handedly taking down some of the most prolific British gangs in the past three decades. He wasn’t remotely a kind or warm figure, _barking mad_ , Ron had once said, _fought in more wars than you’ve had whiskeys in your life_. Still, Harry had never found him unlikeable. There was something to be admired about his black and white morals.

“They’re killing each other like we’re still at war,” Harry commented, eyes surveying the canal. It was quiet today, almost too quiet, as though the world knew what horrors were hidden by its docks.

Moody grunted. “Some say we should let ‘em.”

Harry looked at him abruptly. Moody was already watching him, lips twisted into a strange grimace.

“What d’you think of that, eh, boy?”

Harry tried to hold his gaze but there was something unreadable about the Constable, and he looked away, back at the brown water. He shook his head and said quietly, “I think, that if we do that, there might as well not be any police force in Hogwarts at all.”

There was a prolonged moment of quiet where all that could be heard was the occasional rippling of the canal and the scuffle behind them as the officers cleaned up the bodies of the two murdered men. Harry couldn’t bear it for much longer, chancing a glance at his superior, relieved to see that an almost invisible smile was making his lips twitch.

“They don’t make ‘em like you anymore, Potter,” said Moody gruffly. “Yer the spitter of James. Same bloody morals an’ all.”

Harry tried to smile but it was weak and hurt more than he anticipated. He looked up at the sky, but the sky was white and blinding, with not a cloud in sight, frigid and still, making his eyes sting.

“Excuse me, Constable,” he murmured, turning on his heel and forcing every one of his steps to be measured until he rounded the corner, where he collapsed against the brick wall. He heaved, but nothing came up. It burnt his throat, made his stomach clench and ache. Tears sprang to his eyes.

He’d joined the police to make a difference, to follow in his father’s footsteps, to try and do some good when the world seemed determined to be otherwise. But all Harry felt was bitter disillusionment. His life felt like a lie. His work felt like a sham.

He was meant to protect these people, the people of his city, but he had never felt so powerless.

“Mr Potter.”

Harry jerked upright, leaning heavily against the wall, his head spinning. He straightened his policeman hat and turned around.

The man in front of him was one he had never seen before. He was incredibly tall, and thin, dressed in a pale blue overcoat and matching pale blue suit. _Peculiar_ , was the word that immediately sprung to Harry’s mind, for the suit clashed with the older gentlemen’s fiery auburn hair and beard, though matched his eyes, which smiled with his lips. He was holding a briefcase.

“Yes?”

“My name is Albus Dumbledore,” the man said, offering his hand. Harry noticed he wore white leather gloves. “I am the Chief Inspector sent from London to help tackle the gang problem in the city.”

Harry’s eyes widened behind his glasses, and he pushed them up his nose out of habit than any real necessity. He took the man’s hand, shaking it firmly, eagerly. “Sir, it’s an honour-”

The Chief Inspector raised a hand to silence him. He shook his head and said, “Please, there’s no need for formalities.” His eyes twinkled, like light rippling across water. Harry thought there might be something familiar about him after all, but dismissed the notion as a mere fancy.

Dumbledore sobered quite abruptly, bowing his head. “I knew your father,” he said. “James was a brilliant policeman and an even better man. It is not very often in this line of work that can be said.”

Harry swallowed, eyes flicking away. “Thank you, sir. It means a lot.”

“Terrible thing, what happened to them,” the Chief Inspector continued, shaking his head lightly. “They never did catch their killer, did they?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “No, sir.”

Dumbledore tutted. His eyes slid across the street, finding it empty. It was a side street, in the middle of the day, when all the men were working and the women were busy being homemakers, mothers and maids. Seemingly satisfied, the Inspector leaned closer and said in a low voice, “There is an infestation in this city, Mr Potter. There has been for quite some time but nobody but I saw it. The Death Eaters are growing so arrogant, they’re now leaving their dirty work for the police to clear up. Something needs to be done. Something drastic.”

Harry’s breathing spiked. He stared up at the man with wide eyes, determination swelling in his chest, a sort of breathless intensity raging inside of him. His dad had tried his entire career to rectify the corruption in the police. He had failed, and died trying.

“I will need men to help me, Mr Potter,” continued the Chief Inspector. “Only the best of the best. Men I can trust. Are you so obliged?”

Harry nodded quickly. He stood straighter, hands on his belt, feeling suddenly as though he were back in the war, staring up at a commanding officer with whom his life and future solely rested. He felt like there was a cause in his heart again, a cause worth fighting for. And he would fight for it. For his country. For his city. For his father.


	3. Man-Made Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has a proposition for the leader of The Wolves- and a score to settle after his broken window. Hermione wonders if there isn't something a little bit human, a little bit tragic, about Tom Riddle after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I finished Peaky. Christ, I wasn’t emotionally prepared. Anyway, an update! Finally! I was updating my other fic and I’d managed to find myself a summer job so I was busy with that so it’s a little bit later than I had hoped. I also had exams and now I’ve got uni to prepare for!! Lots and lots of horrible distractions from writing!!! With Greyback, I kind of based him off Alfie Solomon’s a little; I guess I just heard Tom Hardy’s weird cockney accent when I was writing him and inspiration struck. Enjoy!

** Chapter Three – Man Made Gods **

The yard on the edge of the canal was grey and grisly, stained with motor oil and fish guts and Tom was under no illusion that the darker brown paint, splattering the rubble and drawing garish patterns up the side of the workshop walls, was not paint at all, but rather what remained of the last enemy of The Wolves to be invited to this place. There was some heavy fog weighing down the air, thick with the promise of rain, and the clouds above were just as grey and dark as the churning, murky water.

Tom shoved his hands in his pockets and dipped his head, flat cap shielding his face from the bitter chill.

“Dressed it up for ya, Tommy,” grinned Greyback when Tom came into view. He spread his arms wide. “Wanted ya t’feel at home, din’t I?”

Tom raised an eyebrow. Between them was a rickety wooden table and two cushioned chairs facing one another. A white lace tablecloth had been draped over the surface, and someone had gone to the trouble of preparing a tray with two ornate teacups and a teapot. A single withering rose drooped glumly in a beer bottle.

The scene did not fit against the backdrop of the yard, white doily immaculate and clean, chinaware pretty and sparkling in the straining midday sun. Even the beer bottle was rosy and shining.

Greyback was even more of an anomaly.

The man was a beast, seven feet of barbaric muscle and taut, tanned skin that looked like brown leather pulled tight over the frame of a settee. His arms were inked, prison tattoos, gang sigils, crude little doodles of everyday objects, such as a roast chicken and a candle, and jilted indiscernible words; Abraxas had once said that Greyback got a tattoo for each of his kills, to commemorate the moment. If that was so, the leader of The Wolves was a predator of the worst kind, the type to play with his food before he ate it, decorated in all of his visceral glory, battle scars that told the world he had won and had yet to lose.

They stood in sharp contrast to one another: Tom in his sleek black tweed suit, flat cap angled over his eyes, razors glinting along the seams; Greyback wore a dirty white shirt, grey waistcoat tattered and hanging open, too small for his wide chest. He was barefoot.

“Please!” he exclaimed, gesturing the table. “Sit! Sit down!”

He scrambled for his own chair, yellow eyes gleaming. Tom thought it was probably jaundice. Most said it was madness.

Greyback folded his hands in front of him on the table. He grinned. “We ‘ave some business, Tommy, you an’ I.”

“You broke my window,” said Tom calmly, adjusting his cuffs.

Greyback waved his hand, a simple but violent gesture, and said, “I’ll pay, Tommy. As a sign of goodwill. From me,” he pointed to himself, “t’you.”

And then to Tom.

Every time he grinned, there was the wet sound of his lips passing over fleshy gums and sharp teeth. A husk clung to his voice that was half growl, half sneer.

Tom smiled pleasantly. “Excellent. Now, business, did you say?”

“Yeh. I hear you’ve procured yourself a horse.”

Straight to it. Tom raised his eyebrows. “That’s a big word for you, Greyback.”

Greyback’s lips twisted into a feral snarl and he braced himself against the corners of the table, leaning forward as the wood creaked and groaned.

“Don’t yeh know if yeh play with wolves, yeh’ll get bitten, Riddle?” he growled. He slammed his hand down on the table. The tea shivered. The bottle with the rose toppled over. Tom’s face didn’t flicker. “Why do I hear you‘re jinxing your pony for my races, eh? Without askin’ me first. Askin’ me would be proper. Nice an’ respectful, don’t yeh think, Tom?”

Tom cocked his head. “As respectful as breaking my window?”

Greyback grinned, leaning back, folding his hulking arms across his large chest.

“Well,” he said. “I ‘ad to get yer attention somehow.”

Tom clicked his tongue, sitting up to pour the tea, and he was almost surprised to find that it was actual tea, sweet and rich, strong smelling. He said smoothly, “There are more modern ways of getting in touch with someone, Greyback. The post office being one of them. The telephone, a delightful invention you really must invest in, being another-“

“Last time I sent you a letter, you tried to shoot me, Tommy.”

Tom ground his teeth, and offered Greyback his tea and saucer. “Last time you sent me a letter, it contained the ear of one of my men.”

Greyback shook his head, pointing his finger accusingly, waggling it for emphasis. “Now, now,” he protested. “He was a rat. You sent him to spy on me.”

He took his tea and leaned back, the cup comically tiny in his large hands. “Besides, Tommy. We both know yeh never reply to my letters unless you wan’ something. Yeh don’t do nothing yeh don’t wanna do. So what is it yeh want from me, Thomas Riddle?”

Tom regarded him for a moment, before he smoothed down the immaculate material of his jacket, sat up, and said, “I come to you with a proposition.”

Greyback smiled. Tom clenched his jaw and carried on.

“The Death Eaters and The Wolves have occupied Hogwarts for many years now. We know our borders. Whilst we haven’t lived in harmony, I’d like to think we abide by an unspoken agreement. Nurmengard, however, has sprung up quite out of the blue, with no respect for the existing hierarchy. I say we close them down. Drive them from the city. Restore the natural order-”

Greyback’s eyes gleamed suddenly. “Yeh don’t know what they’re doing here.”

It was a statement and Tom twitched. Greyback licked his lips, relishing in the way Tom’s gaze narrowed.

“I have my suspicions-“ he began.

“Yeh don’t know shit!”

Greyback started laughing, a guttural eruption that started as a rumble in his chest and burst upward. The table shook, china tinkling.

“Yer gettin’ slack, Tommy,” he grinned. “It used to be that nothin’ happened in this place without you knowin’ abou’ it.”

“I think you’ll find, Greyback,” said Tom, eyes dark and fixed on the larger man’s grisly face, “that nothing happens in this place without my express permission. Then, and now. War might have changed things but it didn’t change that.”

“An’ what do yeh suppose we do then, Tom? Eh? Burn Nurmengard down? Torch the place an’ all the workers? They’re your workers, Tommy, your men. So yeh won’t do that.” Greyback stroked his beard. “Are we gonna stitch ‘em up? Anonymous tip to one of your Bobby friends? Take ‘em down the legal an’ lawful way? No, that’s not us, Tommy. You wouldn’t come to me for legal an’ lawful.” He leered, grinned maliciously, promisingly. “So what do yeh want from me, eh Riddle?”

“I want your support and your manpower, not if, but when The Death Eaters launch an attack on Nurmengard.”

Greyback’s eyes narrowed. He took a long, loud sip of his tea before placing his cup down on the saucer with a jarring clatter. “That’s it? That’s all yeh’ve got?”

“That’s all I’m willing to reveal just now.”

They stared at one another for a long time; their tea chilled, the noise of the docks fell on deaf ears. Greyback licked his lips. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, which creaked and groaned under his weight.

“Ah’ll look over the horse business, Tommy, so long as I never hear yer trynna rig my races again. Ah’ll even help you take down Nurmengard.” Greyback licked his lips, mouth curled in a ravenous smile, eyes locked on Tom. His eyes gave him away. They were dark and boiling, grey, raging storms. “But if we’re gonna work together, Tom, we ‘ave to ‘ave trust, now, don’t we? An’ respect. Throughout ar gangs.”

Tom inclined his head. “Of course.”

“Your man shot up my man just last week,” Greyback continued loudly, as though Tom hadn’t spoken. “Sliced the other. That’s not very respectful now, is it, Tommy? An’ I ‘ave the pigs crawlin’ like flies all over the crime scene. What do yeh suppose we do abou’ that?”

Tom chose to remain silent this time, watching the wolf carefully.

Greyback was a monolith tower of muscle and sinew, leather skin rough and browned from the sun, however rare it was around these parts, and though he was huge and imposing, his body gave way to little ticks. The whiskers on his chin twitched, lips curling into a snarl, teeth yellowed and bared. His bloodshot eyes narrowed slightly in anticipation.

Tom clicked his tongue and straightened suddenly. “Something tells me you already have an idea of what I can do to make amends.”

Sure enough, Greyback’s fist clenched.

“Yeh ‘ave a kid in your care. Few screws loose, ah’ve heard. Jumps at loud noises-“

“We all jump at loud noises now,” said Tom.

“Nah, not like this one. Real nutcase. Shoots an’ slashes at everything. Yeh know who I mean, Tommy. I want him dead.”

Greyback put up his hands quickly and continued, “Now, ah think tha’s more than fair. He killed two of my men an’ I’m only asking fer one of yours-“

“What were their names?”

Greyback recoiled. “What?”

Tom inclined his head, speaking slowly. “What were their names? These two men of yours.”

The wolf floundered, blinked. Tom didn’t back down.

“I want their names, Greyback. If they were two of your men. It shouldn’t be so difficult.”

“Well, now-“ he spluttered, grappling for words, shifty and undone against Tom’s calm composure. “I ‘ave a lotta men in my care, Riddle. It ain’t as easy as you imagine to remember all their names-“

“I have no trouble remembering mine,” interjected Tom smoothly.

“What does it matter?” Greyback growled, slamming his hand down hard on the table, causing Tom’s untouched cup of tea to spill onto the doily. His entire demeanour shifted abruptly, shoulders dropping, hands thrown in the air, voice disappointed and small. “Now look what yeh’ve done to my doily. Took this off a dead woman’s kitchen table. Figured she wouldn’t be needing it anymore.”

Tom stood suddenly, long fingers braced against the edge of the table. He leaned in close and said, deathly quiet, “Don’t presume my men mean nothing to me as yours do. I’ll do it myself-“

“Ah’ll send one or two of my men to watch,” said Greyback, crossing his arms over his expansive chest. “Not that I don’t trust yeh to be true t’ yer word, Tommy.”

Tom held his gaze. “Of course not.”

Greyback grinned, holding out his hand, fingernails long and as yellow as his teeth and eyes. The growl in his voice was a low thrum this time, a hum of excitement, the thrill of a promise for violence. “Then I do believe we ‘ave a deal.”

Tom shook his hand before he turned on his heel and stalked away, ignoring The Wolves’ leader’s manic laugh as he called after him, “Pleasure doin’ business with yeh as usual, Tom!”

**oOo**

When she first moved to Hogwarts in 1914, Hermione had found the long, dark streets, lined with grey-bricked terraces daunting and unfamiliar. There was something so threatening about them, about the monotony and the silence, that put her on edge and made her long for the brazen London suburb she had always called home, for the bustling and raucous streets she had run away from.

She had been fifteen, small for her age, but clever, the only one who could read at the girls’ home the police had dropped her off at when they caught her trying to steal a loaf of bread from one of the market stalls. It was there that she met Lavender, Padma and Parvati, who just so happened to be her roommates. They would pile their clothes under the blanket to make it look like they were sleeping, before slipping out the window when the matron was busy, shimmying down the drainpipe and sprinting across the cobblestones, laughter breaking free only once they’d rounded the corner. They would then part ways, each running off to their own little corner of the world.

It was at the Natural History Museum that Hermione found her solace. The marble walls were grand, towering high to the mosaic ceiling, matching the white marble floor and she remembered the magnified feeling of awe the welcoming atrium inspired in her all those years ago. She had escaped to the museum so many times that she had every display board memorised.

There was a visiting exhibit on the Ancient Egyptians when she arrived for her meeting with the Chief Inspector.

Part of her wondered if it was chance that had him assigning her childhood sanctuary as their secret meeting place, or if, like with Tom Riddle, Dumbledore had researched everything about her too. She wondered if he knew about The Snatchers. Instinctively, Hermione played with her sleeve, thumb running along the scar-

“Miss Granger.”

She tried not to jump, head turning to look at him.

“Don’t turn around, Miss Granger,” he said, and she stopped, eyes locking on the main display: the bust of Queen Nefertiti.

Hermione faltered; she remembered reading about the discovery in 1913 and hoping restlessly that the London museum would entertain her at least once in Hermione’s lifetime, just so she could catch a glimpse of the painted figure her father used to tell her bedtime stories about. She remembered sneaking into his study and seeing the rows of Egyptology books behind the glass above his desk, filled with anticipation for when she would be old enough to run her finger down the spine, hear the pages crinkle as she turned them.

She flinched at the thought.

Beside her, out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Dumbledore clasp his hands in front of him, looking up at the bust.

“I thought it best we meet somewhere inconspicuous,” he said. “In the future, if no location is specified, assume it’s here. It might not always be myself so the letter will include two code words, one for yourself and one for the officer you will be meeting to ensure you are giving information direct to the right man. I will try and meet you personally as often as my job permits. This is an important meeting after all, and your information cannot be trusted with just anyone.”

Hermione swallowed thickly.

“So,” continued Dumbledore. “I do believe you are stationed in the The Knights now, and that you had the pleasure of meeting the man himself. How fares our man-made God?”

She cleared her throat. “I did meet him. He knew everything about me, about the post office, about the police job- he didn’t say as much, but I could tell in the way he looked at me. He knew instantly my feelings about gangs. I’m afraid I’m not very good at hiding my emotions, Chief Inspector. My mother used to say I wear my heart on my sleeve.”

“Have faith, Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore. “Tom isn’t as scary as you think. He’s just a man.”

And yet, Hermione heard his voice, whispering, sending the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. _Something tells me you don’t know any men like me._

“My friend is a fortune teller, down Ravenclaw Alley,” she said, chin raising as she took in the display, hands clasping the information booklet she’d picked up in the museum reception. “She said Riddle had a horse blessed with gypsy magic there.”

She caught Dumbledore tensing out of the corner of her eye. “A racing horse?”

Hermione shrugged. “She didn’t say.” She frowned, glancing at him, before catching herself and refocusing her eyes quickly on the exhibit. “Do you think he’s trying to upheave The Wolves at The Hogsmeade Races?”

“Very sharp, Miss Granger. It’s likely. Tom never knows when to stop, unfortunately. He’d take over the world if he could.”

Despite the heaviness of his voice, Hermione preened under the praise.

“Anything else?”

Her shoulders dropped. She frowned and admitted, “Nothing of importance. I’ve only spoken to him that one time when he offered me the job. He comes into the pub every night but he usually goes straight to the front room and Abraxas serves him.”

“Thank you, Miss Granger. I hope you know that your role in this operation is invaluable, truly. We could not be doing this without you.” He turned to her then, finally directly acknowledging her. His smile was small but wide, his eyes just that little bit too blue. “Soon, this city will be free of men like Thomas Riddle. I promise you that, Miss Granger.”

**oOo**

Hermione had gone straight to The Knights after Dumbledore left her standing in the museum.

For some reason, his words had twisted like a knife lodged deep in her gut. When she’d met Tom Riddle, she felt as though she was face to face with the devil himself; his eyes were impossibly dark, eyelashes long, lips sensual and perpetually curled, as though he was waiting for the punchline to a sickening joke. She knew he’d undoubtedly killed people, both during the war and not, both innocent and guilty men, men who were as bad as him. She knew, reasonably, that he was a bad man who needed, deserved, to be taken down.

And yet, _and yet_ , Hermione wondered what kind of place Hogwarts would be without Tom Riddle, without, as Parvati had said, _our bad men._

She was late to work, a fact Abraxas good-naturedly jibed her about, though he stopped when he noticed she was distracted, lacking her usual spirit. He even offered her the day off, but Hermione plastered a smile on her face, hoping she was concealing the moral battle warring away inside of her chest, and told him that they were out of whiskey and he hadn’t even noticed and the pub would probably be in administration before closing time if she left now.

Abraxas laughed, whipping the towel from his shoulder to clean the glass in his hand. “Touché.” He flicked the towel in the direction of the back door. “We’re out of inventory too. You’ll have to get it from the warehouse. I’ve been meaning to do it myself but as you so brutally poked holes in my managerial ability, you can do it.”

Hermione grinned, rolling her eyes at him, but did as he said, slipping out the back door. The warehouse was only across the back alley so the trip was short and quiet. She unlocked the back door with the key around her neck, sourcing the bottles of whiskey, stacking them in a crate. She put the crate on the ground so she could lock up again.

“I’ll give you £20 if you sack off work now. Though I’d expect you to spend the night for that much, if you’re not opposed.”

Hermione spun round, forgetting that the key was still in the lock, the string attached to the key and thrown around her neck tightening suddenly, choking her. “Excuse me?”

The man was leaning against the opposite wall, entirely composed, arms folded across his chest. She was sure she’d never seen him before but he looked remarkably familiar; his hair was glacier, the colour of sterile sunlight, near white, and elegantly coiffed. His skin was pale, his face pointed, chin tipped like a caricature of an aristocrat. He was wearing an expensive dark green suit. His lips curled in a smirk.

“I’ve seen you in The Knights,” he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. Hermione finished locking up, turning to face him. “I know what you are. I admit I don’t know your going rates but I should hope £20 more than covers it, exceeds it even.”

Hermione stared at him. “I’m afraid,” she began slowly, “that I don’t know what you’re talking about. The prices are clearly written on the board inside-” She picked up the crate, moving towards the pub. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to work.”

The man blocked her way, stepping in front of the backdoor. The smirk was still clinging to his lips. “Now, now, sweetheart, don’t be like that. I’m offering you a very reasonable amount of money.”

“And I’m not interested,” Hermione replied stiffly, trying to sidestep him, using the crate to keep him from getting closer.

He grabbed her arm. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider? I can go up to £25-”

“I do believe the lady said no, Malfoy.”

Hermione spun so quickly the crate clattered from her hands, every bottle of whiskey exploding as it hit the floor. She flinched, but she didn’t know whether it was from the cold spray of alcohol as it soaked her feet through her stockings, or from the sight of Tom Riddle across the alley.

“Tom.” The man behind her had gone pale, voice trembling with shock. He recovered hastily, smoothing down his hair and sauntering closer, smirk plastered on his face. “Long time, no see. I was just checking out your new goods.”

Hermione felt herself flush, cheeks going hot. Her eyes flicked to Tom, to find he was already watching her. He ducked his head with a chuckle, slipping a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lighting it between his teeth. “Doesn’t look like she appreciates being referred to as _goods_ , Draco.”

Draco, the man in question, though he was really only a boy, only Hermione’s own age, turned casually to her, flashing her a blasé grin. “Sorry, love.”

Hermione’s lip curled in disgust. She took a deep breath to keep herself from lashing out.

Tom took a drag on his cigarette, finally looking up, staring at her through hooded eyes. “Besides, she isn’t for sale.”

Hermione didn’t look away from him, but she knew Draco had stopped, his eyes locked on Riddle. “I’m Lucius Malfoy’s son.”

His age was painfully evident in the petulance of the statement, like a puppy whining at the bigger dog taking away his bone.

Tom looked at him, tipping his head in Hermione’s direction. He didn’t look at her. “And she’s my barmaid.”

It was like something dropped in Malfoy’s brain for his eyes widened and he grappled for an apology. “Tom, I didn’t know- I just assumed she was-”

“I know what you assumed, Draco. Miss Granger, on the other hand, is deliciously oblivious.”

Draco cringed, turning to her finally, slowly. Hermione glared at him. “I’m sorry,” he began, stilted. “For propositioning you…”

“Propositioning me for what?” She frowned.

Draco winced. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, swallowing thickly.

“He thought you were a prostitute,” intervened Tom. He smiled. “Didn’t you, Draco?”

Hermione’s mouth dropped. She glanced between the two of them but all she could manage was a splutter of indignation, attempting to get the words out to properly articulate her outrage.

Tom smirked slightly. “Well, I do believe you’ve apologised to the lady. If you hurry, you might be able to find an actual prostitute who’d gladly jump in your bed for £25. You might even get away with a lower price since it’s offpeak hours.”

Draco didn’t need to be told twice. He ducked his head, muttering a goodbye to Tom, and left the alley without so much as a glance behind him.

“I can look after myself,” she said, frowning at the space the younger Malfoy had just been occupying. “I don’t need a babysitter to fight my battles for me.”

Hermione looked at him. Tom regarded her for a moment, before he exhaled and the smoke from his cigarette twirled through his lips. He pushed off from the wall, crushing the cigarette underfoot.

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “But I’m your boss.”

“Abaraxas is my boss.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “And who do you think is his?”

He moved closer, so he was stood directly in front of her, fingers gripping her jaw, not tightly, but his hands were cold and she flinched. He brought his face lower.

“You’re my barmaid,” murmured Tom. “That makes you mine. And I look after what’s mine. Do you understand?”

Hermione stared at him. His eyebrows quirked, fingers squeezing her chin and she relinquished a nod. “Good girl.” He released her and stepped back, hands in his waistcoat pockets.

“I’m sorry about your whiskey,” she said after a moment.

Tom hummed. “Maybe we should have taken Malfoy up on his offer to cover the damage.”

Hermione scowled, even though she knew he was joking.

“Malfoy?” she asked to change the subject.

Tom nodded. “Abraxas’ spoiled nephew. His father, Lucius, is MP for Hogwarts.”

Hermione nodded. She had known that; Lucius Malfoy wasn’t exactly an unfamiliar name nor presence, but somehow it had not clicked that he would be in anyway related to her boss. Abraxas and his brother were polar opposites. Abraxas was happy-go-lucky, relaxed and, much to Hermione’s recent surprise, a genuine pleasure to work for and be around. She’d never met his brother, but from what she’d read in the paper, Lucius seemed shrewd and short-tempered, conservative with a capital T for Tory.

“Come on then,” said Tom. “We need to replace the whiskey you broke.”

Hermione’s head shot to him. “You frightened me!”

He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t force you to drop it now, did I? Luckily for you, I have a promising business venture that should make up for the losses.”

He gestured to the warehouse door and she dutifully unlocked it, eyeing him curiously. “What venture? Bodyguards for-” Hermione flushed.

Tom glanced down at her, frown pulling his eyebrows together, before he said, “You can’t even say the word. Christ, where did Abraxas find you?”

The last part was muttered to himself, with a little wondrous shake of his head, before the door clicked open and he led the way.

“What’s that meant to mean?” she demanded, following him in and standing with her hands on her hips as Tom hauled the crates onto the table, filling it with bottles of whiskey.

“It means you’re bloody innocent is what it means.” He stopped, narrowing his eyes at her. “Any danger of you doing your job, sweetheart?”

Hermione pursed her lips but helped him anyway, retrieving the whiskey off the floor and shelves until the two crates were full and they each had one in their hands, and they carried them back to The Knights.

“What took you so long?” Abraxas asked as soon as she appeared, placing the crate on the bar.

“Your nephew accosted her in the alley,” said Tom before she could open her mouth to reply, coming up next to her to put the second crate down.

“Tom! I wasn’t expecting you until this evening.” Abraxas frowned. “Wait, Drake? What’s he done? He didn’t hurt you, did he? I know he talks the talk but he really wouldn’t hurt a fly-”

“Go on, Hermione,” said Tom, pouring himself some whiskey and leaning against the bar to smile at her. “Tell Brax what he did.”

Hermione pursed her lips. She flicked her hair and looked at Abraxas. “He offered me some money.”

“What for?” prompted Tom.

She glared at him, hands flying to her hips. “Because he thought I was a Lady of the Night!”

“A what?” Abraxas blinked.

“A prostitute,” said Tom, lips curled imperceptibly, eyes strangely bright as he looked at her. Hermione exhaled through her nose.

Abraxas burst out laughing, hiding his face in the bar rag to stifle the sound.

“Abraxas!” exclaimed Hermione, shoving his arm. He swayed and the laugh broke free. She buried her face in her hands, feeling the warmth of her cheeks, and gave into laughter. When she stopped, she tipped her head back, grin drying on her lips, Tom’s eyes clinging to her.

**oOo**

The mid-afternoon sun spilled through the windows, pooling on the floor, dripping off the tables.

Tom had stayed, to Abraxas’ surprise, occupying the chair in the very centre of the pub, smoking and drinking steadily as Hermione pottered, sweeping the floors, cleaning the bar, washing up the glasses and resorting the alcohol on the shelves. It was quiet, everybody at work or sleeping before the nightshift, and she savoured these stolen hours at midday when she could just get on with it.

“Does Abraxas not allow you breaks?” asked Tom.

Hermione huffed a laugh, shooting him a look. “It’s hardly taxing work, Mr Riddle. I can manage.”

“Tom.”

She stopped. “What?”

“I thought I asked you to call me Tom.” She didn’t reply. “Take a break, Hermione.”

Hermione stared at him, before she put down her towel, coming round the bar to her bag and coat, where they hung on the stand, retrieving her book, and going to sit at the far end of the pub from him. She opened her book and started reading.

Tom let the silence rest for a few minutes, content to watch her read, before he put his glass on the table with a clink and recited softly, _"Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die."_

Hermione lowered her book. “You read Tennyson?”

The spot she had taken meant that they were directly opposite one another.

Tom smiled wryly. “I have trouble sleeping.” His smile dropped. He continued to stare. “Which one are you reading?”

Hermione held the cover up for him to see.

He hummed. Clicked his tongue. “ _In Memoriam_.”

Tom helped himself to another glass of whiskey, resting it on his knee so he could watch her. “Will you read it to me?”

“It will break your heart,” Hermione felt inclined to warn him as she stood, holding the book to her chest, moving closer.

There was a small, soft, uninhibited smile on his face when he looked up at her and shrugged, opening his arms in surrender. “My heart’s already broken. Do your worst.”

She raised an eyebrow, perching on the table next to his, crossing her ankles. “A woman refuse to marry you?”

“Women are tripping over themselves to marry me,” he smirked.

“Is that so?”

He hummed.

“And none of them have piqued your interest?” she asked.

Tom stared at her. “Not one.”

Hermione watched him, eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Have you never been in love?”

“Do you have a partner, Miss Granger?” he asked instead. “By your virginal reaction to Draco Malfoy, I’d guess not.”

“No.” She cleared her throat and looked away. She smiled bashfully. “I much prefer my books. Books don’t talk back.”

“Which gets us back to the reading,” said Tom.

Hermione glanced down, opening the book on her knees, and began to read:

_“‘Strong Son of God, immortal Love,_

_Whom we, that have not seen thy face,_

_By faith, and faith alone, embrace,_

_Believing where we cannot prove;_

_Thine are these orbs of light and shade;_

_Thou madest Life in man and brute;_

_Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot_

_Is on the skull which thou hast made._

_Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:_

_Thou madest man, he knows not why,_

_He thinks he was not made to die;_

_And thou hast made him: thou art just._

_Thou seemest human and divine,_

_The highest, holiest manhood, thou._

_Our wills are ours, we know not how;_

_Our wills are ours, to make them thine-’”_

“I’d like you to come with me to The Hogsmeade Races next weekend.”

Hermione stopped reading. Tom was watching her.

“If you’d like to, of course.”

She wondered if the offer was genuine, if he truly was giving her the choice, or if, as Tennyson alluded to, her free will was only a guise and was, like everything else in Hogwarts, his.

And then, Hermione wondered if it was something simpler than that. She knew, undoubtedly, that this only confirmed her theory that The Death Eaters were attempting to hijack the races, that the offer was purely selfish. And yet, she couldn’t help but think that Tom Riddle was lonely, that his heart truly was irreconcilably broken.

“Of course, Tom,” she said softly. “I’d love to. Perhaps we can find you a lovely young woman with a parasol.”

Tom’s lips broke into a grin. “Perhaps, Hermione.”


	4. Grimmauld

** Chapter Four- Grimmauld **

Grimmauld Place was a towering manor house on the outskirts of Hogwarts, grey brick blending into the grey sky and the grey smoke that spluttered from Malfoy & Sons on the hill above it. The windows were dark and if Harry didn’t know better, he’d think it derelict, devoid of all life, just empty bricks and closed doors and dark windows that never saw the light of day.

He hadn’t been here since before the war, when things were happier, when his parents were alive and the man who inhabited the lonely, haunted house in the valley was more than a wisp of an alcoholic, running on distant memories. Harry stole a moment for himself when he got to the gates. The iron was browning. The insignia of the Black family red with rust. He peered through the bars to look at the house, wondering if his Godfather would even recognise him.

The gate wasn’t locked, though it creaked crudely as he pushed it open and closed it behind him. Overgrown blades of grass tickled his ankles as he made his way up the winding road to the front door. The fountain had dried up in the driveway, lily pads shrivelling and grey.

Harry hoped against hope that his uncle was in better condition. He prayed to the God he didn’t believe in.

The brass knocker was stuck when he tried to use it, so he knocked on the door, politely at first, before realising that he’d have to use a little more force to be heard, and pounding on it.

“What is it?” A gruff voice sounded through the wood. “What the fuck do you-“ The door opened. “James?”

Harry’s throat closed up. He grappled for something to say but all he could manage was, “No- Harry.”

Sirius blinked, before he opened the door a little wider so he could lean on it. Harry took him in.

The man stood before him could not possibly be compared to the war general lauded in The Daily Prophet throughout the war. His shirt, which looked as though it might have once been white, was beige, open and billowing around his neck, hanging over the waistband of his slacks. His knuckles were white, clenching the neck of a half-empty bottle of rum.

“Oh.” Sirius exhaled shakily. He stepped aside. “Come in. Can’t let James’ kid freeze to death on my doorstep.”

Harry stared at him and, once again, wondered how this man was the same man who had led the cavalry charge through France, the same man who had tucked him up in bed and told him animated bedtime stories when he was just a baby, the same man who had been his father’s partner in the force.

“What can I do you for?” asked Sirius, voice husky and broken from lack of use, stopping in the entryway once Harry had closed the front door behind him.

Harry swallowed, eyes darting around the house, conscious not to stare at the peeling wallpaper and broken stair, nor the cobwebs the size of a car bonnet which draped in the corners of the room.

He looked at his Godfather. “I need your help.”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed. “I don’t consult with the force anymore. Pettigrew should have told you that.” He paused, scratching at his chin. “Is Pete still there? Nervous fella, he was, kept saying he was going to quit after every dead body that turned up.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “He’s on the front desk. Admin work now.”

Sirius hummed. “Probably for the best. Decapitation wasn’t good for his anxiety.”

He turned on his heel and started further into the heart of the house. Harry reluctantly followed, keeping his bag close to him, as though a shadow from his past might leap from the walls and steal it from him, when it was all he had left.

The house became no less dark nor unwelcoming as the outside and entrance hall. The walls were a dark emerald green, lined with golden, ornate frames holding generations of Lord Black’s, and Harry felt their eyes following him as he followed Sirius down the hall. There were no plants, and the carpet threw up an air of dust with every one of his footsteps. Every inch of the place looked desolate, like it hadn’t been lived in in years.

Sirius finally stopped at a door, near the stairs to the servants’ quarters, holding it open for Harry and following him in.

“Can I get you a drink?” Sirius asked as they entered what appeared to be a living room.

“Oh. No, thank you.”

Sirius wordlessly sank onto the settee. Harry took a place on the settee opposite and looked around. The room was perhaps as accommodating as he could imagine it being in such a house, with crimson settees and books lining the walls. There was a shining golden graphophone in one corner, and a grand piano in the other. Harry supposed his Godfather must spend the majority of his time in this room for it was unusually devoid of dust, and an array of empty glasses lined the leg of the sofa he was sat on.

“Christ,” muttered Sirius after they’d spent a few moments in silence. “You look just like James.” A rare, wry smile pulled at his lips, barely visible through the unkempt scruff of a beard. “Except your eyes. You have her eyes.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. He cleared his throat, readjusting the bag on his lap.

Sirius’ eyes fell on it and he took a long swig of rum, motioning with his bottle. “What’s in the bag?”

Without a word, Harry stole a breath and unzipped the bag, retrieving from it a brown, creased folder, which he flipped open. One by one; he placed the photos and documents on the coffee table, upside down so that Sirius could see them clearly.

His Godfather sat straighter in his chair, leaning forward. “Kid- Harry- what the fuck is this?”

Harry sat back and said, “It’s not much. But it’s everything I could find on my parents’ murder. Like I said, I need your help.”

Sirius shook his head, turning his head away, eyes clenching shut. His hand tightened around the neck of his bottle, pressing the tip against his forehead, pushing it there until it left a little circular indent. He kept shaking his head. “Harry, you don’t understand-”

“I- I do. I know what I’m asking of you,” continued Harry quickly, before Sirius could say anything else. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’re not exactly well. I know you drink till you can’t remember the day you found them-“ He broke off, closing his eyes, hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white. He pleaded, “But I never even got to see them. I was still at war and when I came home- I had no home to come to. I never even got to say goodbye… Sirius, I need your help. You were his partner, his best friend. There’s no one else in this world who knew him better. I need to find out what happened, Sirius. Or it will kill me, like it’s killing you.”

Sirius watched him raggedly. He licked his dry lips and said, “And what if you die trying?”

Harry shook his head. He dragged his hand across his face to wipe away the tears. “I’ll die either way. But I’ll feel a damn lot better if it’s trying to give them justice.”

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, he sat right on the very edge of the settee, leaning across the coffee table between them. The bottle slid from his grip, booze soaking into the crimson carpet. He was tense and insistent, knee bouncing nervously.

“There’s no such thing as justice in this world, Harry. I know your parents taught you otherwise, but they were hopeful people and it got them killed. Hope gets you nowhere. It got neither of us nowhere in the war. You and I survived on sheer dumb luck and dumb luck alone. The streets are no different.” Sirius swallowed. His hand was trembling too as he brought it up, gesturing wildly. “You’ve been on the force for nearly a year now. You know the state of the city, the gangs on every corner, the bodies being fished out of the canal more frequently than actual fucking fish. There’s no justice in Hogwarts, Harry. There never was. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll stop being such a sucker for hope and realise that it’s not war and other men that kill us, it’s the hope.”

He took a deep breath and said, “It’s the hope you fucking drown in. Now pack up your bag and go, before you change your mind-“

Harry shook his head. His heart thudded furiously in his chest. He refused to pick up the papers and photographs, standing up abruptly. “Don’t you want to find who killed your best friend? Don’t you give any kind of damn-?”

“Of course I give a damn!” Sirius roared, flying to his feet. His hair had come undone. His eyes were wide and livid and heartbroken. “He was as good as my brother. Of course I want to find out who killed him, or had him killed, or whatever the fuck happened to him! I can’t spend a day sober because I’m in so much pain! But you’re getting yourself into a rabbit hole, Harry. And if you go down it, you’ll never find your way out. It will consume you.”

He deflated, shoulders slumping, head falling forward, hair covering his face. “I’ve been there, kid. I’ve done that. It ain’t pleasant. It’s no way to live.”

They stared at one another then. Harry could tell instantly that his Godfather was a haunted man. The crescents under his eyes were black, the scruff of a beard clung to his jaw, and the reek of alcohol hung heavy on the air between them. He knew he should heed Sirius’ warning, lest he turn out just like him, an empty husk of the man he used to be. But he couldn’t.

“I’m not leaving until you at least look at the notes I’ve made,” said Harry resolutely, spreading the documents back out across the table, before standing straight again to look at his Godfather.

Sirius just stared at him, pained. “You’re so much like him.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. He pushed his glasses up his nose even though they hadn’t slid an inch. A rare smile flickered at his Godfather’s lips.

Sirius slipped back onto the settee, on the edge, leaning forward so he could have a closer look. His finger ghosted over the face of his best friend.

“How’d you get your hands on these?” he asked.

Harry cleared his throat. Sirius looked at him, grin spreading across his face in anticipation.

“My friend lured Pettigrew away so I could sneak into the records room and copy it all up.”

Sirius laughed, a sharp bark of amusement that made Harry jump. He ran a hand along his stubble, eying him as he asked, “And why can’t this friend help you?”

“My father always said you were the best police officer in the force,” said Harry. “You worked with him. You knew his enemies, his friends, everything about him.”

“He didn’t have any enemies,” said Sirius immediately.

“Everyone has enemies, Sirius. Even the most liked man in the world. My father was still a police officer, surely he ruffled a few feathers along the way-”

“There was one,” said Sirius suddenly, sitting up straighter, a shadow crossing his face. He quickly put the bottle on the floor, interlocking his fingers as he leaned forward. “We went to Oxford together. I guess you could say it started off as schoolboy rivalry and all that. James saved his life once, jumped in the river to save him from drowning, but if anything, it just made the git hate him more. Everyone in the university could see how much we hated each other. I think at some point it passed beyond petty rivalry and into something far more hateful than we meant for.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his throat. He took a deep breath. A lead. His first lead was on the cusp of his Godfather’s tongue. “What was his name?”

“Snape. Severus Snape.”

**oOo**

The shock of platinum blond hair was an unwelcome surprise when Hermione returned from the backroom, and she recognised the pointed aristocratic features of the man stood at the bar with a sinking feeling in her stomach. He wore a midnight blue suit today, perfectly pressed, white shirt crisp and cold. One hand sat in his waistcoat pocket, the other tapped restlessly on the counter, gold rings adorning his fingers, the most impressive of which curled around his index finger, proudly showing the Malfoy insignia. His face was cast out over the pub, lip curled at the rowdiness of a group of factory workers in the far corner.

Hermione pursed her lips, putting the tray of glasses on the bar in front of him and narrowing her eyes.

“What do you want?”

Draco shot up straight, spinning to face her. His hands smoothed down his waistcoat. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

She rolled her eyes, turning to pour him some whiskey and said, “Your uncle isn’t here. I don’t know where he is but I don’t think he intends on coming back as he’s left the keys with me.”

He nodded but remained quiet.

Hermione eyed him for a moment, before she turned her back on him and began clearing the tray of glasses, putting them back on the shelves below the sink.

“I came to say I’m sorry.”

She glanced over her shoulder, frowning. “Tom’s already made you apologise. There’s no need to-“

Draco tore his eyes away from his drink to look at her, and the look on his face silenced her.

“No, I know, but I wanted to say it without a gun against my head. Somehow, I feel that it better conveys the sincerity of my apology.”

She scoffed, shaking her head and getting back to work. Hermione said scathingly, with a short, derisive laugh, "He wouldn't have shot you, Malfoy."

But Draco didn't laugh.

"He's shot men for doing less."

Hermione’s hand slipped. Her eyes shot to him but she couldn’t find the bravery to ask him to elaborate. She straightened, leaning back against the counter, arms folded across her chest.

"Did you really think I was a-?" Hermione stopped and swallowed. She knew it wasn’t a dirty word. Lavender never minded it. But for some reason, she just couldn't bring herself to say it.

Draco snorted. "Not after having a conversation with you. You can't even say the damn word."

She blushed, glaring at him. He faltered, suddenly sheepish, cringing. "But yeah. Usually, those are the only kind of girls that work here. I've never known my uncle to keep a barmaid."

"Maybe you just ignorantly presumed they were- of that _profession_ too."

He tilted his head. "Maybe I've just never been turned down before."

"The pay is rather poor, I suppose," she said, biting back a smirk.

Draco grinned. "The offer's still there, love, if you ever find yourself struggling.”

Hermione laughed, cleaning the empty glasses off the bar and putting them by the sink behind her. She called over her shoulder as she ran the tap, "You could never afford me, Draco."

"Darling, I can afford anything. You just name the price."

She rolled her eyes, biting back a grin, and she caught him hiding his smile in his whiskey, when the door to The Knights burst open, clattering against the wall. Hermione whirled around. Draco shot to his feet.

A man stumbled in, hair clinging with sweat to his face, cheeks pallid and waxy. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, darting around the pub, flinching away from the other patrons. One of the workers in the corner moved towards him, hand reaching out, tentatively, asking if he was okay, as though the strange man with the wild eyes was some kind of wounded beast-

There was a flash of silver and the man reared round, slicing in front of him, brandishing a knife.

Hermione gasped. There was a murmur among the workers as they pressed back into the wall. Draco started forward, then stopped. “Hey! Reg- Reg, are you okay? What are you-?”

Reg grabbed the worker, knife kissing his throat, spinning around. His hand shook violently. The poor man in his grasp whimpered, a vein popping in his soot-covered face.

Draco held his hands up in surrender and edged closer. “Regulus,” he said. “It’s me. It’s Draco. Your cousin, remember? You’re in The Knights, where you worked last week for Uncle Brax. It’s Tom’s pub, Uncle Rolph’s friend. You know Tom. He’s good to you. Remember? Found you a nice house when you came back.”

Hermione’s eyes darted between the two. Regulus didn’t seem to be listening, his eyes still racing, sweat dripping from his hairline. He was jittery, like he was on something. She’d never seen anything like it but she realised quite abruptly that she’d read something similar recently-

Slowly, she came around the bar, hands raised similarly to Draco’s, coming to stand beside him and ignoring him as he murmured for her to get back because it wasn’t safe for a woman.

“Where are you, Regulus?” asked Hermione. She stepped closer. He was still blinking rapidly, head jerking at any slight noise and movement. She raised her voice. “Regulus, can you describe for me what you see? Where are you right now?”

Regulus finally focused on her, centring on her voice. He twitched, drawing the man in his grasp closer in, knife nicking the soft flesh of his throat. “I- I- It’s dark. I can’t see anything.”

The lights were out in the pub, casting it in shadow, though enough sun poured in from the high windows to light the room up.

“Why? Why can’t you see anything?”

“It’s so dark,” Regulus cried, pushing his face into the man’s shoulder, hiding behind him. “The bomb’s kicked up all the dust. I can’t see where they are.”

“Where who are?” asked Hermione, edging closer again.

Regulus squeezed his eyes shut, face still pressed into the workman’s back. His voice was muffled, barely audible, when he said, “The Germans. They’re going to shoot me.”

Hermione swallowed a sob, blinking back the tears in her eyes. She shook her head but tried to keep her voice neutral. “There aren’t any Germans, Regulus. They’re not going to shoot you.”

“Yes!” He trembled, knife slipping again from the outburst, before repeating, in a tinier voice, “Yes they are. I know they’re there. They’re coming for me. They’re going to shoot me.”

“Regulus,” said Hermione, close enough that she could touch him if she reached out. “I’m going to describe for you where you are, and I want you to open your eyes so you can see for yourself. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

After a moment of terse silence, he nodded against the man’s back.

Hermione glanced around. “We’re in Hogwarts, in a pub. It’s called The Knight’s of Walpurgis, named after some historical band of knights that may or may not have existed, who supposedly founded the city. The floors are dark wood, as are the walls, though there are so many windows that you can’t really see the walls, and it’s a lot lighter inside than you might think. The windows are obscured, so you can’t see out onto the street, where the workers change shifts every day for the Malfoy and Nurmengard factories.” She paused to take a breath. She didn’t know if he was listening intently but his breathing had become heavy and even and his hand, though shaking, did not jerk with each word. “There’s a bar too, with lots of alcohol; whiskey, rum, beer, gin- and a barmaid, though I can’t say much about her without risking hubris. Around the room to your left is a built-in seat, with emerald green velvet covers, and tables running alongside and chairs on the other end. There are lots more chairs and tables all around us. Can you see the pub, Regulus? Can you open your eyes for me?”

She tried not to hold her breath as his eyes flickered open and he blinked, head slowly turning to take in the room she had described, soaking in the dark walls and obscured windows.

“Where are you Regulus?” asked Hermione gently.

“The Knights,” he muttered, arm falling from the worker’s throat, who remained rooted to the spot. The knife clattered to the floor. His entire body deflated.

Hermione smiled slightly when he looked at her, holding out her hand, as if it might ground him just that little bit. He took it, grabbed it, and she stroked her thumb along his knuckles.

The worker edged away, all but collapsing into his colleagues. Draco moved closer, kicking the knife away, as Regulus stumbled into Hermione, hugging her waist, breathing heavily into her neck. She sank to the floor with him, letting him hold her, cradling his head.

“-needs to be in a fucking nuthouse!”

The explosion of sound made Regulus jump, cowering closer into her, and Hermione craned her neck to watch Draco talking in hushed tones with the workers in the corner, before he sighed, reaching into his waistcoat pocket and slipping them some money, appeasing the man who gestured to his scratched neck with an extra note, before they left the pub, and Hermione turned her attention back to Regulus.

“How did you know?” asked Draco, coming to kneel opposite her.

Hermione continued to stroke Regulus’ head, making soothing noises. She said quietly, “I’ve read about shell shock, about the men who returned from the war only in body and not in mind.”

“He has the attacks sometimes,” said Draco, swallowing thickly. A hair had come out of place on his forehead and Hermione reached up and brushed it back. His eyes darted to her, then away just as quick. He then conceded, “All of the time. I never fought in the war. My father found a way to keep me out, he’d never risk his only son. I hated it at the time. I wanted to go. I made sure to stay indoors because I couldn’t stand the sight of those white feathers on the streets…. But it’s times like this that I’m glad he did it. I can’t imagine what happened there to make men react like this, like a man possessed. Not unless they were faced by the devil himself.”

“If Hell was the front line, then he’s still there,” said Hermione softly. She sighed, looking down at him. “We should tell Tom.”

Draco didn’t reply, and when she looked at him, she caught him eyeing her oddly.

“What do you know about Tom?” he asked.

Hermione froze. She pursed her lips. “I know what I’m getting myself into, if that’s what you mean.”

“If you really think Tom is the place to go for a sympathetic solution, then something is telling me you don’t have a clue about him.”

She gritted her teeth and countered, “Tom was in France too. I just thought he might know more about this than we do!”

Draco visibly recoiled. In a hushed voice, he said, “So that’s what this is really about. I should’ve known telling you would change your opinion of me-”

“I’m a pacifist, Draco,” replied Hermione in a furious whisper. “I don’t give a damn whether you fought or not. What matters is getting your cousin the help he needs-”

“What help, Hermione?” retorted Draco. “Don’t you think we’ve looked? His parents are dead, his brother is an estranged alcoholic. Abraxas has been looking all over for someone, somewhere, who knows what to do about this, but the only place that will have him is the madhouse! Nobody believes shell shock is a real thing! The war changed people, Miss Granger, and some, it made mad.”

Hermione cradled the boy soldier closer to her, feeling his fists tighten in her skirt, seeing his shoulders rack with silent sobs and realising just how young he was for the first time, only a couple years older than herself. She shook her head.

“It’s not madness, Draco, it’s trauma.”

Draco stood with great effort, straightening his jacket. “There’s no place in The Death Eaters for anyone with a heart, Miss Granger. I thought you’d be smart enough to have understood that.” A muscle in his jaw ticked and he turned away from her. “I’ll go hunt down Abraxas. He should know what the bloody hell to do.”

And with that, Draco left the pub, sunlight glinting in his platinum blond hair, suit impeccable as ever. Hermione watched him go.

She shifted Regulus so that he was lying, body curled in on itself, with his head in her lap, stroking his hair as he whimpered. “It’s okay,” she murmured, not sure if he was sleeping or simply had his eyes closed to block out the world. “I’ve got you. You’re safe, I won’t let anybody hurt you now.”

**oOo**

Despite the tiredness settled deep in her bones, Hermione stayed up late that night, sitting in the tiny living room of their house with a book in her lap and the reading lamp on. She had not read a word of the book by the time the key finally clinked in the lock and the front door crept open.

“Lavender?”

“’Mione?!”

Lavender emerged from the doorway, light casting garish shadows on her face, throwing into contrast her no-longer red lips and dark, mascara-laden eyes. Her blonde curls were loose and wild, thrown about her shoulders. Her dress was twisted.

She glanced at the clock above the fireplace and her eyes widened. “Hermione, it’s late! What on earth are you doin’ still up at this kinda time?”

Hermione swallowed. She closed her book, though her fingers still tapped nervously on the cover. Lavender noticed, frowning slightly as she perched on the arm of the settee. She reached out to check her temperature.

“’Mione, are you feeling alright?”

“I need your help,” whispered Hermione quickly, stealing the moment before she had the chance to back out. Lavender retracted her hand, dropping it to the back of the settee instead. She nodded for her to go on. Hermione continued, hesitance making her stumble over her words, “You said once, when I first asked you about your… _profession-”_ Lavender snorted, “that one day, I’d have to learn that in a man’s world, a woman’s only leverage was what she had between her legs.”

She flushed at the crude image, but pushed on regardless, all but blurting out, “I need you to teach me what you meant.”

A horrible silence settled over the living room. Parvarti and Padma had gone to bed hours ago. It dawned only on part of Hermione’s fatigued mind that this was a terrible idea and that she should have really gone to bed with them, especially when Lavender asked, in an indecipherable voice, “You want me to teach you how to seduce a man?”

Hermione cringed, eyes cast skyward as though she could beg God to spare her the humiliation. “Yes,” she somehow managed to squeak out.

Lavender grinned. Suddenly alight, she slipped from the settee, moving to stand in front of her. “Some patron at the pub caught our sweet, demure Hermione’s eye?”

“Something like that,” Hermione smiled weakly.

“Well, it’s easy,” said Lavender, and she was transformed, moving sensuously around the room, her hips swinging with just enough to tantalise. She tapped her chin in mock-thought. “First, you have to know what kinda man he is. Is he assertive? High-ranking? In love with power and control and nothing else?” She paused, eyebrows raising. “Is he meek and mild? Desperate to prove himself because he’s lacking in almost every aspect of his miserable life?” A gloved hand shot to her heart. “Or is he a self-idealised romantic? Does he long for a woman to play the perfect, doting wife who he’ll have perfect, doting children with?” Lavender held a finger up to punctuate her question: “Does he want to own you or love you, that’s the all-important question. Cherish or possess? Those are the only two motives for any man when it comes to a woman.”

“How terribly pessimistic,” said Hermione, folding her arms. “It can’t be that straightforward-”

“Oh, my darling, but it is.” Lavender flounced over and sat beside her. “So what kinda man are we talking?”

Hermione pulled a face. She said warningly, “Just so you know, I am thoroughly against this kind of pigeon-holing.” Lavender rolled her eyes. Hermione’s shoulders dropped. “I suppose he’s the first kind. Assertive. Dominant. Powerful…” She paused. “But I can’t help but feel like he’s lonely, too. I don’t know if it’s the war that got him, like every man, or if it’s something deeper.”

“See, you’ll learn after a while, men like that are all the same,” said Lavender, leaning closer. “Men like that like a chase. They get everything they want all the time. The only way to seduce powerful men is to hold off, to make ‘em wait, to drive them to the edge before you finally give in. You need to make them think you’re the only thing in the world their money can’t buy.”

Hermione’s face pinched in disbelief. “That works?”

“Of course it works, hunny,” replied Lavender, smiling. “Men are just animals in the end. It’s all about what they can’t have. It’s a long game, sure, but it hooks ‘em, line and sinker. Gives you a better payoff than any of the others. Powerful men have a record of looking after their possessions.”

“You’re not a possession, Lav,” said Hermione softly, brushing some curls away from her friend’s face. Lavender flickered slightly.

“I know,” she nodded, smile back on her face in force. “But it sure feels nice to be treated like the prettiest diamond in a man’s safe once in a while.”

Hermione didn’t smile, though. She took her hand and said, “I could always ask Abraxas if he needs anymore help at the pub-”

But Lavender laughed, waving her off. “I’m fine, Hermione. Don’t you worry about me! Worry about yourself and seducing this man of yours. God help the poor soul Hermione Granger sets her eyes on! I hope he supports Women’s Rights. I don’t know if he’ll survive you with the way you go on-”

Hermione swatted her, and Lavender leaned back into the cushions to evade her, smile still loosely draped across her lips. She watched her through hooded eyes and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look like this before. You look pretty when you’re falling in love, Granger. You should do it more often.”

“I’m not falling in love, Lav,” Hermione managed to get out after a second, and her heart thudded painfully in her chest, trying not to give away just how much the thought disgusted her. “I’m just curious.”

But Lavender simply raised her eyebrows, rising to her feet. “Well, we’ll have to finish settling your curiosity another night because I’m knackered.”

She kissed her on the forehead and disappeared off upstairs to bed, but Hermione remained wide awake, captivated by the paralysis of Lavender’s last statement.

She wasn’t in love. Resolutely, Hermione knew for a fact that she wasn’t even teetering on the cusp of falling in love, least of all with Tom. It was just an idea she had had, quite out of nowhere, after catching herself thinking about the soft, uninhibited look on his face when he’d asked her to read to him because not even Tennyson could break his heart any further, that perhaps the surest way to get the leader of The Death Eaters to divulge his deepest, darkest secrets was to make him fall in love with her, using the only weapon a woman had in this world.

And yet, she didn’t know if she could do it. Tom certainly liked a chase. He liked the back and forth of their conversations; Hermione had seen the way his eyes had all but lit up at her rebuking comments, enticing him into a spar of words. He was definitely the kind of man Lavender had described _and yet_ , there was one caveat, one small catch that nibbled at the back of Hermione’s mind as she wondered, fruitlessly, if Tom Riddle was even capable of something as mortal and mundane as love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So, a few notes for this chapter:   
> As you have probably figured out, whilst Harry’s parents are still dead in this AU, they died considerably later into his life than in the series. This is a major subplot to the story and will be elaborated on later so I will leave you in suspense.  
> I really hope I portrayed the PTSD and did it justice. I did some research into early forms of shell shock and found a really limited and unsympathetic understanding of it following WW1, so Hermione’s reaction isn’t really appropriate given the context but I feel like she always has a solution regardless and I never claimed this fic to be historically accurate, only stretching so far as my research allows!  
> Perhaps moving a wee bit fast, but the Grace x Tommy relationship happened fairly quickly in the show. I think period romances always seem to happen on fastforward so I guess this won’t be as slow a burn as my other fics (if you’ve read Wanderer in particular, this is probably a HUGE RELIEF!)  
> I hope you liked this chapter. I certainly enjoyed writing it and I cannot wait to see your reactions to where this story is going! Thank you for reading once more, I really can’t express enough how much I adore getting your reviews through.


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